


let your body burn

by mirabilis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Street Racing, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/pseuds/mirabilis
Summary: The world is reborn, a flight of airborne fulfillment, enlightened in the world of Sakusa’s eyes. “Good thing we have all the time in the world, right?”Atsumu left Los Angeles for a reason, he was never meant to return to the streets of racing. Not until Sakusa Kiyoomi walks into his life, and turns his whole world upside down.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67
Collections: Haikyuu Big Bang 2020





	let your body burn

**Author's Note:**

> hello! thank you for those who have stumbled upon this fic, it means a great deal to me! i hope you enjoy!
> 
> additional warnings: mentions of drowning, gratuitous food metaphors and descriptions as a plot device, cussing/language and minor injury 
> 
> the must listen [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4qPnVEPqeFuCY927GpANQb?si=J7WUc3vxS8Wu4N2yiqoMhg&utm_source=copy-link)

“Hey ‘Tsumu,” 

Osamu has that look. He always wears a mask that Atsumu calls his ‘resting-pissed off face’. Though really, his brother is as open a book as anyone could be and that’s how Atsumu knows something is wrong. The view of the tracks is sensational, he can taste the leather, the smell of oil. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think I wanna do this anymore.” 

Atsumu sits on the rails that face the darkest parts of the streets, an elbow awkwardly placed when he grips the rail too tight. It was unintentional, but then again this was his brother speaking to him. Telling him, that he — _what the fuck?_ It’s a shame, since Los Angeles late nights look ethereal around midnight when Atsumu can feel the earthy must of the grounds beneath his feet when dangled over the railing like he could leap off and take flight. But this isn’t Icarus’s story to foretell, this is getting too depressing, to be frank. 

He doesn’t register when Osamu first tells him. He could faint, or blink a few times in disbelief. Atsumu could also be the responsible, older brother — the role he was thrown into years ago when he stepped foot into the back alleys after hours when the neon lights of the tracks hidden from locals blurred lines between Atsumu’s eyes in awe. 

So instead, he answers fairly. But deep down, as his feet continue to dangle and his brother stares at the sky as the restless night reflects, Atsumu almost feels guilty. “Have you gotten tired of me already?” he jokes. 

Osamu rests his hands in a mangled mess like he’s trying to pull his fingers apart while thinking. He runs an oiled hand through his hair, brisk and inefficient. “Yer makin’ this harder then it has to be.” 

“Oh, am I now?”

“Stop bein’ an ass, you can’t change my mind.” 

Atsumu snorts, inhaling the fresh air and the smell of the nearby food truck that stays open past dark. Sometimes, they would spend hours bickering over a shared plate of greasy french fries and the spiciest chili hot dog. The food would scald their tongue so badly that both of them would shut up, and end of discussion memories were thrown down the drain. 

“I wasn’t gonna.” He says. 

Osamu seems surprised. “You weren’t?”

He throws his head back, laughing while staring at the empty sky and taking in the streets, the burning scent of engine oil and rust. “Seems like me tryin’ to convince you to stay would be useless.” 

“I’m never gonna forget it.” Osamu offers, like he’s trying to uphold some promise between them. Or that he’s swearing by the countless days standing underneath the shed they shared while tinkering away at Atsumu’s glossy, red 1957 Chevrolet. 

_You better not,_ he almost dares to reply. But that would leave one more memory to sustain and rendered forgettable. So instead, he remains silent and hops down from the railing and watches Los Angeles once more. Those are memories that will never leave him. 

*

Atsumu adjusts. It takes a while, having been years, over a decade since he’d last been in Japan. Camping around his new apartment, laying lethargically on his blow-up air mattress as if he didn’t need to unpack. Sometimes he sits at the small, corner balcony that faces the buzzing cities that roar his name past dawn. Cities and promises yet to be kept once he finishes the exploration of his past, ones he hasn’t visited in countless, repeated days. 

There’s a reminiscent linger that clings to him, even after leaving Los Angeles. Maybe the golden sand that crinkled between his feet when he trudged through the beach shores after sitting with Osamu and drinking away the sunset—holding in a geared laugh shared over memories served both hot and cold. 

He visits his old home in Hyogo, which was sold immediately after he graduated high school. He sat on the concrete corner as lights flicker on and off inside the home, listening to shrouded laughs over a dinner table as silhouettes tousle happily throughout the space. 

He thinks about several things; the weather and how miserable he feels to have it swapped with Osaka’s humidity whereas Los Angeles boardwalks in the mid afternoon grazed his forehead gently, offering a nice tan in the summer. Atsumu dances around the thoughts of the high, in the back of his Chevrolet that smelled like cherry balm and Giorgio Armani. Losing himself in the midst of the bar, or outside of the tracks betting eagerly as Osamu would attempt to talk him out of the silly brawls and bets he would wager before impressing the crowd swiftly. And then there’s the exhilaration when he’s racing the streets on Hollywood Boulevard.

Memories. So futile and precious yet wasted in mere minutes as you continue on with your life. It’s not as if he gave up, he should ask Osamu for that specific answer. Not that either were looking for a bloody fight. Osamu was lucky enough to set him up with a cheap apartment, overlooking the local hole in the wall joint that served comparatively good tasting ramen. And the owners seemed to like Osamu which was a bonus because everyone liked his brother and seemed to know of their existence the moment he stepped off the plane. 

Even if there are a thousand, no, a million memories that he should let go of, Los Angeles sticks out like a sore thumb. He should forget the buzz, or the thrill of the streets when his hands stick to the steering wheel as he makes a sharp turn. Or the afterkill of victory and how good it tastes against his lips. Atsumu can find a new purpose here, a new life.

The only question is, can he really let everything go? 

*

_“Wake up and get yer lazy ass out of bed would you?”_ Osamu hollers over the phone. Atsumu blinks awake, his curtains thrown to the sides of the window as the sunlight pours drastically in the middle of his living room. Osaka’s humidity spiked the moment he stepped out of Narita Airport. Dust collects on the empty photo frames on the half-set up plate glass table. 

Atsumu rubs his eyes, debating whether or not to hang up on Osamu, fighting away the urge to crash back against his cold pillow. “I heard you the first time alright?” and he’s thrashing through the tangle of his blankets scrambling to sit properly against the sectional sofa Osamu had dropped off during the middle of the day, a day or so ago. Atsumu can’t confirm when exactly, as the days have blended together like the sky, a mix of azure, or a tint violet, malevolent in the signature heartache that one’s hands lifts to the bottom of the earth and he’s closing his eyes to step on the gas pedal. A white line streaking the pavement, brass piercing flat of his feet when he drives. 

_“Yeah, yeah, well you haven’t been answerin’ yer phone. Got worried that you got shitfaced in the middle of some random alley in Ginza.”_

He yawns, stretching his limbs and rubbing his back against the cushion and straightening his legs to the hard wooden floor. “On my second night back? I’m beginnin’ to suspect you only think so lowly of me ‘Samu?” 

_“Givin’ you the benefit of the doubt.”_

“Ah, is that it?” Atsumu answers, rolling his eyes before turning on the tv. There’s only so many cable channels he can watch, given the circumstances of his model tube tv set propped up on a small vanity. 

He could always grab a quick breakfast sandwich at the corner deli in Namba, the same way he used to lounge at the family diner on Sunset Boulevard back in Los Angeles; gorging on piping hot cappuccinos and flakey, buttered cinnamon waffles drizzled in maple syrup. Some mornings, he dragged Osamu out early enough to accompany him to witness the sun rise from the horizon of the Hollywood sign. It’s nothing extraordinary, in the way that the sun casts an enchanting spell on the grassy fields and embraces the arch of his red Chevrolet, basking in the crimson everglow. 

_“Hey, are you even listenin’?”_ Osamu asks, and Atsumu sets the phone down, pressing the speaker button. 

“Unfortunately.” And Osamu mumbles a quick _‘fuck you’_ under his breath as Atsumu leans back, turning up the volume higher and soaking in Osaka’s gentle greetings of first break. 

*

He started racing at sixteen, cramped up in a shabby alley, paying too much for bets that were bound to end in disappointment. Clutching his ticket, pushing through the crowd to fight for the best view, or leaning against the fences in awe and anticipation of the street races. There was the sweltering heat, crawling up his neck like sweet excitement as he found an empty space in the crowded barbed wires separating the heavy crowd from the street. 

He always enjoyed cars; when he was fifteen, he pawned a Dodge Challenger with the money he scrapped together with Osamu from working five-hour shifts at the surf shop on South Bay. The change in his pocket rattled, pounced like his lungs when he heard the gunshot, the buzz of the first rush — the engine revving dutifully, indiscreet in salute to the unpaved roads. 

And that’s when Atsumu first experienced it, the exhilaration that became a gust of wind, aching in his knuckles, when he wished that that was him, fast paced to pure annihilation that stemmed from the sudden hunger. The hunger lay flat on his back as soon as he gripped the wire fence, wanting nothing more than to jump over to gain a better look. Atsumu felt like there was neon lambent in the tires when they drove into the curves, the patches of grass and the noisy crowd enthusiastically cheered and booed and Atsumu couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. 

Two hours later, half past midnight and roads had cleared, it was Osamu dragging him away, and Atsumu burned holes of determination into Osamu’s eyes as he told him, “I want to learn.” 

Osamu smiled wryly, and it would be difficult to stomach that he was the youngest between them. “I think I know someone who can help.” 

*

Atsumu knows that Osaka streets run differently than Los Angeles; some races tend to lean more on the mild side. In Los Angeles, or even the neighboring cities, if he could yank himself out of bed early enough, there were milder races to place fun-sized bets on. Osamu sometimes moderated those races and picked up Atsumu along the way, bribing him with Tonkatsu Ramen. 

But tonight's crowd, the first feast of notable sponsors in the makeshift seating lounge eyeing the prize down below, is buzzing with energy. Atsumu cracks a brutish grin, sticking his hands into his pockets, careful not to stand out. He and Osamu stumbled upon an ongoing race by chance while in the Kita District. It isn’t full compared to the wild street races that wreaked havoc once the sun went down.

“I didn’t think it would be busy at this hour.” Atsumu hollers over to Osamu, who seems to be in search of a certain someone. 

“Luck of the draw I guess,” Osamu says, peering over the throng of heads in the distance. 

Atsumu claps his back, the shadow of a lanky figure coming into the picture, “He’s over there.” He points to the entrance of where they first came in. Osamu waves a meandered salute, before disappearing into the seams of people, and then Atsumu is alone. In a city, surrounded by strangers, menacing glares are tossed his way, which he ignores, and instead forces himself to engage on a scavenger hunt for a proper bottle of beer. The area is an open lane, mere painted lines separating the crowd from the participants, and he spots Osamu, not returning back to him but chatting with a boy around their age; ah, Suna. 

Suna's been in Hyogo for the past year, helping his father run the battered garage in town, where he learned all his tricks and schemes he wore under his belt. Atsumu knows enough about Suna; that he taught him how to properly rev his engine, sixteen year old Atsumu almost fucking up the bumper of Suna’s old Ford Mustang that scuffed loudly every time he slammed his foot on the brake.

Does he recall the good days, followed up with memorable nights of Osamu slurping up a strawberry milkshake, fingers sticky with cream as Atsumu struggled to drift for the first time and Suna laughed at him? There were bad days too, when Osamu stayed too late at Suna's back-alley brownstone, and when Atsumu asked, at the tender age seventeen if Suna would be joining them today, that Osamu shook his head and announced that he would be returning to Japan. _"Oh."_ Atsumu had simply said.

And that was the end of that. Atsumu grows up, something along the lines of a racing prodigy perhaps. 

_‘It's been two years, hasn't it Suna?’_ he wants to say, approach him, tell him about the endeavors, losses, of his mentor, who really was just an exploiter to Atsumu for his brother. He sees the sentimental grasp of greedy fingers wrapping around each other in the distance, as Suna leans in to whisper into Osamu’s ear. And Osamu has the audacity to laugh like that a month after reuniting at Narita International Airport.

Instead, Atsumu keeps away, mingling with the crowd, enough to reach the front where the last lap of cars zoom by, engines seeping with every burn of adrenaline. The silver Chevrolet Camaro swerves between lanes, almost recklessly, and the tires screech at the yellow line. Soon second and third place follow. The yellow lines mingle with the open crossroads, and Atsumu brightens, excited to see who the winners are. They arrived too late to chip in their bets, but Atsumu hadn't exactly planned on spending a fortune, only nailed to an anchor with the simple 10,000 yen in his back pocket to pay for a ride back home. 

There's a figure, clenching his fists in the air victoriously, salt and pepper hair bouncing acutely as another boy strolls to his car, and Atsumu freezes. Maybe because there's something so alluring about him, he holds himself with the well regards of a racer, but the way he stands, it's so familiar yet unfamiliar.

He scolds the presumed racer, who runs a sheepish hand behind his neck and laughs more. And from the view of the roads, numerous feet away, their eyes meet. Like the click of a camera, Atsumu exhilarates inside the glamoured dead of the night gleam of his eyes, sharp like cutlery and indignant. His hair mats in ebony tumbling curls across his forehead, then he's gone, herding the racer away into the thick crowd. That leaves Atsumu, enamored in the welcome of Osaka's streets, hunger growling in his stomach and a pinch of excitement awakening him. 

*

Atsumu wakes up with a lenient headache; it's pounding against his temple first thing in the morning, before he’s had his first cup of caffeine, or maybe it's in the spawn of Osamu banging at his door. Atsumu feels as if he's drowning in deja vu, of Osamu bursting into the studio apartment they shared in the cheaper parts of Santa Monica, shoving a hot, steaming egg and cheese bagel in his face to arouse him from bed faster. It worked 99% of the time, and Atsumu trudged of bed, heading down to the small makeshift track that was just a multitude of dead ends, or an empty parking lot that was deserted, so Atsumu could work on his slamming the gear shift, or if Osamu was not feeling too carsick then he would do donuts at the empty Farmer's Market parking lot. For fun, because he was juvenile and insensible and wanted to win. 

Winning. Atsumu used to feel it in the pads of fingers, nails digging into the steering wheel. It was exhausting, when victory hit between his back and he remembered the stiffness in his leg, or the cramp in his wrist. Triumph was leisurely play back in Los Angeles. Atsumu was well known, his name passing through the night, like the fog creeping down his back whenever he walked down neighboring streets wondering if racers knew his name. Which they did, for the most part. They knew his brother’s name, after all, Atsumu hadn’t risen from the deepest part of hell to arrive at the top alone. 

They were a duo, ever since sponsors and wandering spectators had taken an eye to the two scrawny teenagers who made their income by washing cars in the suburban neighborhoods, or who were always held at two ends by Suna Rintarou, former ghost racer. It wouldn’t be fair to Suna for Atsumu to tell his story, especially when he doesn’t even know half of it. 

And so Atsumu returns to the manifestation of deja vu slamming his door open, key in hand and a brown paper bag in other as Osamu stares down at him. “I come with leverage,” he says. Atsumu is already waving his hand, slipping on his blanket trying to find his footing to walk into the bathroom. 

He brushes his teeth, changes his clothes, and can practically hear Osamu's heavy, impatient breathing from across the room. When he returns, he marches over to his brother, greedy for whatever the fuck he has in that brown paper bag, his stomach grumbling; he hasn’t had a morning shot of espresso or anything to wake up. Osamu pulls away, and grins. “Good morning.” Atsumu gives an exasperated sigh, and he in return is given a one-shoulder shrug, flippantly ignored. 

“Get in the car, I wanna take you somewhere.” 

“Plan on shippin’ me back to Los Angeles so soon?”

“Get yer head out of yer ass or else I’m leavin’ you.” Osamu throws him his keys, “and yer drivin’.” 

Atsumu catches them easily, stuffing them into the pocket of his jacket he picks up from the back of the chair. “Sounds like a plan.” He locks his door shut behind them and they fall into alignment down the stairs to the parking lot where Osamu’s (?) Mazda Miada sits, it’s open roof cranked out. The leather is warm as Atsumu slides into the driver seat. “Who’s car?”

Osamu rests his elbows on the car door, leaning over when Atsumu begins to reverse the car out of the parking spot. “Rin’s. He’s lettin’ me borrow it for today.” 

Atsumu makes a face of partial disgust and eminence. 

“Shut it, I don’t wanna hear nothing from you.” Osamu swats him and adds, “just drive.” Osamu nearly begs, and nostalgia relaxes in the back seat, propping up their seat and clicking their seatbelt. Atsumu smirks, but compiles. 

“So, where are we goin’?”

A drawn smile loosens, and Osamu simply taps his knuckles on the door panel instead. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” 

* 

Following Osamu’s lazy directions, a half hour later, they pull up to the backside of a garage near Umeda, where the race that they stumbled upon last night was located. They’re in Namba, and the streets are already filled with mid-afternoon routine, surrounded by tourists and office workers stepping into the Curry rice shops for a late lunch. Osamu is the first one out of the car, flinging the door open to approach the figure standing outside the garage. 

“Thanks for puttin’ some time aside for us, I really appreciate it Inunaki.” 

Atsumu follows behind his brother slowly, as Inunaki cocks his head at him, almost judgemental, yet somehow carefree. 

“Is this the prodigy brother you were talking about?” he judges in Atsumu’s direction, hooking his thumbs in the ratty denim that hangs loose around his hips and pools around his ankles. 

Atsumu takes the opportunity to introduce himself, pushing forward to sweep Inunaki into a handshake. “Heard good things, I hope.” 

Inunaki sneaks in a secretive grin when Osamu pulls at his elbows and Atsumu hits his shoulder. “Atsumu right? Suna has spoken highly of you.”

Osamu lifts his head up. “He’s here?” 

Inunaki starts walking backwards, maintaining his balance as he speaks. “He just arrived, but Meian’s been waiting for you, so seeing him might have to wait.” Atsumu wants to poke fun at Osamu, but keeps quiet as they enter the garage. It’s roomy, certainly larger then some of the places he’s worked part time for near the downtown areas of L.A. 

“Wow, this is impressive.” Atsumu almost feels inclined to wander over to the repair area and run his hands through the greased tools. It almost feels childish, like wandering into a cave alone at night. 

Inunaki puffs his chest in pride as they continue walking. The lower floor appears to be empty as they pass a hall. At the end there’s a painted black door and Inunaki knocks barely once before pushing the door open. “Meian-san, they’re here,” he announces. 

There’s a man, hovering around a cluttered desk, slicked black hair curling under his ears as he rises from behind the desk. He’s tall, taller than Atsumu by a decent measure, with a friendly face, hooded by uncanniness. 

“Miya Atsumu,” Atsumu introduces himself, though he’s sure Meian already knows who he is. 

“Shuugo Meian. I’ve heard things about you from Osamu.” 

Atsumu feels the need to laugh, because this isn’t the first time he’s heard that. “I’m beginning to believe that I'm some sort of celebrity around here.” 

Meian hums, a placid smile mild at the tips of his mouth. “Of sorts.” 

Osamu wears a passive line, arms crossed as he sits in the extra chair near the desk, eyes traveling further and further from Atsumu. “Do you want me to tell him, or should you?” he asks. 

With a finger to his lips in thought, Meian leans against his desk, and Atsumu’s eyes wander a bit. The room is nice, though it’s a bit messy, bordered in shelves lined with photo albums, the gleam of glass against the shine of a faded photo. 

“Atsumu,” Meian starts, and Atsumu breaks his gaze away from the walls. “Our garage has been lacking a few members, and your knowledge of racing could be useful.” 

“Are you asking me to work for you?” 

He didn’t plan on returning to the roads after coming back to Japan to follow Osamu. Wasn’t he meant to leave his old life behind in Los Angeles? 

“Don’t you miss racing?”

Atsumu scoffs, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I suppose there’s no harm in helping you out a bit.” 

Meian smiles, stretching his hand out, and Atsumu accepts it. “Welcome to the team.” 

*

Inunaki guides him out of the office, and Osamu lingers around to talk to Meian, shooing Atsumu away to get a tour of the whole garage with an, “I’ll see you around.” 

For the most part, the garage looks like any auto repair shop in town, or even halfway across the world. Gear parts hang on their black matted wall, three cars are suspended in the air, and he can feel the frigid reflection of the floor, as they saunter through. It seems normal, smaller and more compact than he’s used to, yet somehow comfortable. “The main floor is for more basic repairs, the second floor is for employees. Most of our installments are done here in the garage, since we’re a smaller shop on the further part of town.” Inunaki explains, gesturing excitedly. 

“Are there other auto shops nearby?” Atsumu asks out of genuine curiosity; most street racers typically belonged to a group of sponsors who ran a garage in their allocated area. In Beverly Hills there were more garages in the popular areas, a shop lined up on most streets but Atsumu never was truly sponsored by any of them. He and Osamu tended to be more independent. Surely Suna had dozens of sponsors when he used to race, but here it felt weirder to say that he now belonged somewhere. 

Inunaki licks his lower lip, and answers, “Most auto shops range from the outer parts of Osaka, mostly in the Tennoji area.” 

“I see.” And there’s that, Atsumu takes a moment to politely scrutinize Inunaki in broad daylight. He’s probably a few years older than him, honey blonde wisps pouring over his forehead, ampled cheeks and his smile seems to be caged in a box, guarded on all four sides. 

They continue walking, and there’s a thump of the second floor stairs. Two people stumble down, and Inunaki hollers, “Slow down, you’re gonna get yourself killed one day!” Atsumu recognizes the racer with the salt and pepper hair from a few days ago, along with a shorter, more energetic ginger haired-boy. “Over there is Bokuto, and the other one is Shouyou, they’re both racers that represent our garage.” Soon, they’re beyond their reach, and Inunaki sighs, “we can do introductions later. 

“And there’s our team’s best and brightest mechanic,” Inunaki continues as they enter the repair area and the smell of leather and oil hits him almost immediately. And a sly grin appears and as Inunaki gives him a little push. “Don’t be shy now, he won’t bite.” 

There’s a man, wearing a black jumpsuit loose around his waist with a white tank top underneath. A spring of black curls bounces from behind the Ford Mustang (ivory and sleek, full of horsepower). Atsumu might even dare to call him stunning, dark eyes pinned down in utter hatred as he pulls away from the car, wrench in hand. 

“Uh, hey?” Atsumu says. The mechanic gives him a glare, wiping the very attractive addition of grease from his forehead. 

“Inunaki, I thought I told you to stop bringing in strays.” 

He fully faces Atsumu now, removing the gloves off his fingers and throwing them on the car. _Oh._ He was the boy from earlier, it’s the same eyes that pinned him down and wrangled Atsumu for days, haunting his memories like tail lights beckoning him from the edge of a tortured street. Atsumu scoffs, not expecting the jab that came his way. “I suppose Meian makes a habit of picking up lost racers,” Atsumu says. 

“Are you lost?” The boy asks, almost daunting, another slight punch in the stomach and he’s known Atsumu for less then a minute. 

Inunaki steps forward, seeming to sense what prospered tension has already begun to settle between them. “Meet Sakusa Kiyoomi, you’ll see him around often. If you ever need anything, he’ll be there to help.” Atsumu shifts his stare, to the contrary of Inunaki’s words Sakusa appears to be the opposite. 

“I’m busy.” 

“You’re on break right now.” Inunaki points out. 

Sakusa reaches for his gloves, giving Atsumu a quick once-over, “Nice meetin’ you.” Atsumu grumbles, before Sakusa storms away. 

He feels funny, like someone is twisting a wrench in his stomach. Atsumu isn’t sure what to think — or even how to think. This will be his new home, other than the shitty apartment he’s forged into. And he wonders what the hell Osamu was thinking when he brought him here in the first place. 

*

The next day, in the early wraths of morning, Osamu calls him with the request from Meian that he appear at their team meeting. When Atsumu first walks into the meeting room it’s half empty, except for a plentiful table spread of breakfast foods and an espresso machine resting on the top counter. 

Atsumu isn’t sure what to do; he feels like an outsider. For years life on the streets was risky, insecure — if he hurt himself or got into risky business there would be no one to assist him — except maybe Osamu.

He yawns, taking it upon himself to start chowing down on the Sesame bagel nearby, spreading cream cheese on top when Inunaki makes an appearance, mid bite. Atsumu gives a friendly wave. In the 24 hours since they met, Atsumu still hasn’t been able to figure him out. “Good mornin’.” Atsumu makes an effort, and Inunaki’ eyes twinkle at the surplus of items on the table before he seizes a breakfast burrito and takes a huge bite. 

“Morning!” 

Shouyou follows inside two minutes later, and then comes Bokuto, who is accompanied by another mechanic, or so Atsumu assumes judging from the grease wiped along his cheek and the mooned shadows under his eyelids. Inunaki snickers and throws the mechanic a piece of toast. Adriah Thomas is how the mechanic introduces himself, friendly enough, quiet yet enthusiastic as he takes a seat next to Inunaki. 

“Where’s Omi-Omi, he’s never this late?” Bokuto asks, splitting a strawberry jelly-filled donut with Hinata. 

Just as he speaks, the door swings open and both Meian and Sakusa enter. Sakusa already seems to be in uniform, wearing a tight long-sleeved muscle shirt, fit to his arms and a set of gloves on his hands. His eyes waver, wandering in the direction of Atsumu as Atsumu finishes wiping the crumbs off his mouth. Sakusa then diverges in the opposite direction, and takes the last empty seat furthest away from Atsumu. Now not sure if he should feel offended, discouraged or amused.

“Alright, since everyone’s here already we can get started.” Meian brings their attention ahead, where he’s standing and Sakusa is three steps behind. “Firstly, as most of you are aware by now, we have a new member.” 

Atsumu hears a muffled ‘tch’, a click of the tongue in disagreement and he doesn’t need to look twice to see that it’s Sakusa. Atsumu twists his lips, itching to get a word out. But he remains quiet, and Meian’s focus shifts onto Sakusa in disapproval before returning to the rest of the room. 

“Continuing forward, there is a race soon, high stakes and the bets to be wagered will be twice fold, if we can win—” 

“If we can win.” Sakusa reiterates with malice. “We have three weeks, how the fuck are we supposed to be ready?”

Meian remains poised, “Atsumu is our best choice, and he’s no stranger to the streets.” 

“But it’s been weeks since he last raced? He’s nothing but dead weight.” 

Atsumu’s palm slams to the table, he’s had enough of this bullshit. “And what’s supposed to mean? You think I can’t take the heat?”

Meian’s fingers splayed over his eyes, and with a deep sigh he intervened. “Be quiet, Atsumu’s addition to the team wasn’t a hasty decision. And there will be no further arguments on the matter. Understood?” 

Sakusa slumps back into his chair, fidgeting with his gloves, pushing the fingertips back and forth onto his hands. Atsumu sags back into his chair and lets himself stare holes into Sakusa’s forehead as Meian continues to talk about the race.Soon his words are the chalice around Atsumu’s hands, and he rests his chin on his palm as he glowers at Sakusa. 

_What the hell was he supposed to do now?_

*

He wears a distant memory on the hilt of his neck, a sword hung above his hand, and he wants to reach, closer and closer. blood drips down his face, sliding down his neck. Salt to a wound that Atsumu remembers his first mishap. The feeling of free fall, the Sword of Damocles hovering his head, taunting and waiting for his future to catch up to him. Suna, hitting the brakes of his crappy Honda Civic that he used to use when he first was teaching him how to drift. Atsumu almost rammed the bumper into a bush, or the telephone pole. Or how he felt like he was slipping on ice, his legs thawed, frantic breaths plausible through his head and how Suna abrasively took the wheel. _You’re gonna get yerself killed, take it easy._

Everyone tells him that, he hears it until it’s written on his rib bones and carved into his forehead like a blaring red sign. Atsumu isn’t sure where to look first, what step he was meant to take. In the distance, there’s Los Angeles, a dream inside a dream with it’s extended arms ready to swallow him up — hosting a welcoming party in his return. 

And there’s Osaka, that paints the dismissive frown of a stranger. A stranger who wears his subtle disgust well. _You can’t be too quick to choose, and so you crawl to the floor, head in hands that dress your salted wounds and lick away the gears that knob into your shoulder. Where will you go? How much longer can you carry on like this?_

Atsumu runs and runs, never bothering to look over his shoulder, even as the sword swings closer. 

*

“Sakusa Kiyoomi, I’m surprised to see you here.” Atsumu says. He holds a warm can of asahi beer and corners Sakusa near the edge of the fence. 

With Shouyou and Bokuto’s relentless prodding, Bokuto had dragged Atsumu with them to venture to an outdoor rave party in the Shinsaibashi district. Sakusa doesn’t appear to have changed his clothes since the meeting, a red patterned flannel hugging his biceps, gloves remaining on his hands. He cocks his head the slightest degree as if he doesn’t want Atsumu to know that he’s judging him but is simultaneously making it painfully obvious. “Is that so?” 

Atsumu downs the rest of his beer, throwing it blindly into the closest trash can. It makes a _clang!_ against the plastic rim before falling inside. “Isn't it only honorable that I made the fairest of presumptions regardin’ yer outside life, as you seem to know enough about my private circumstances?” Atsumu draws his eyebrows in question, wanting to see any sign of arrogant waterfall from his pending expression. 

“Trivial matters,” Sakusa dismisses, and Atsumu laughs because in the 48 hours 4 minutes and 20 seconds in counting of knowing that Sakusa Kiyoomi existed in his life, he’s managed to become absorbed in an whirlwind of emotions. 

“Jus’ admit it, you don’t trust me.” 

Sakusa turns away, music grows louder, booming like rockets in his ear, fireworks twirled in the air during The Nagaoka Fireworks Festival when he was younger. Neon purple swirls around his tongue, his eyes gunshot ridden eyes smoky in the caliber of a ruptured engine. 

“Trust,” Sakusa scoffs, “there’s no one you can trust, not when you live this sort of life.”

“Speakin’ from experience?” Atsumu prods. Probably prodding too much, seeing as disdain crosses over Sakusa’s mouth for the third time in the past ten minutes. 

Sakusa walks away, like last time and so Atsumu reaches for his hand, covered in those mechanical gloves that he wears constantly, Sakusa whips back around, disgust leeching at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t touch me,” he warns before reuniting with Bokuto and Hinata at the opposite side of the party. And far, far away from Atsumu.

And so, Atsumu stands there, somewhat a fool, feasting on Sakusa’s impertinence on his behalf. _Interesting_ , he thinks, and undistinguished feelings rumble in his belly like a motor rusted in the aftermath of a downpour. A thunderstorm is just around the corner. 

*

Mid-afternoon is when Osaka’s heat is bearable enough that Meian leads them to an empty track rented out with sums of money in courtesy of himself. Now, Atsumu and Sakusa stand outside, one hand on hip, and a baseball cap swung to the back of his head. The nape of his neck feels sweaty, and he wipes his forehead, rubbing it onto his cargo pants. Sakusa quirks an eyebrow in evident disgust. Atsumu grins, offering a small wave as Meian starts, “I apologize for dragging you here on such short notice, I’m sure you both have a busy schedule with the race coming up soon.” 

Sakusa slides down his pair of sunglasses, unshielding his bored expression. “Meian-san, is there a reason we’re here?” he says as he motions to the private track. 

Atsumu airs out his t-shirt, flipping his cap off and running a tampered hand through the mess of blonde locks before returning to its place on his head. “Kiyoomi, you said that you don’t trust him. Why?”

Sakusa seems taken back, a first in the books. “He’s imcompetent. Messy. An underground street racer, the worst of street racing kind,” he fluidly answers, and Meian looks surprised by the caustic damage in his response. 

“Are you scared of me?” Atsumu breaks out. “Are you afraid of me Omi-kun, do I terrify you?” he teases. Sakusa’s mouth widens, dumbfounded almost, before darkening once again. 

“What is there to be scared of?” 

“You don’t think I can win, allow me to prove you wrong.” The sun tackles Atsumu’s back, wind gusting chills through his shirt as he stands rigid and Sakusa crosses his arms, “unless yer afraid that I might actually impress yer boss over there.” He shoves a finger in Meian’s direction, and adds with minced politeness, “of course, if that’s alright with you?” 

Meian surrenders easily, “I see no problem. This is a good way to see what you’re made of. Any objections?” 

Sakusa shakes his head, head straight forward. 

“The cars we keep in the smaller garage for this track will be alright I hope? I’m afraid it won’t be the same horsepower as your Chevrolet.” 

“Not a problem.” Atsumu smiles kindly. The pre-adrenaline pumps through his veins; just the thought of returning to the track excites him. It’s been weeks since he drove a car like this, in free spirited competition. 

Sakusa returns minutes later, steering the car with easy flair, like this isn’t his first time on the track. He ducks his head out and throws Atsumu the keys. “Don’t fuck her up, she’s been recently reworked.” 

Atsumu runs a hand through the hood, chrome winking in sunlight. He throws his baseball cap at Sakusa whose fast reflexes catch it in time. “Yer lack of faith is truly disappointing Omi-kun.” 

As Atsumu rolls up the window, he watches Sakusa’s face grow murky. Meian holds a timer in one hand and a whistle he digs out of his front pocket in the other. 

Atsumu grips the steering wheel, white painted lines cracking across the pavement — the sun blowing its horn. 

The whistle blows and Atsumu _drives._ The track is relatively basic, designed like most typical layouts in the area. He doesn’t drift, instead he plows through, braking on occasion when he takes wide turns. His shirt sticks to his arms, and Atsumu laughs. He’s not sure who can hear him when he’s a kilometer away from Sakusa on the end of the track as he turns the corner. 

Atsumu nears the end, the burn of the silver clock ticking at his head — like the butt of a gun or the unearthing of a radiator. Heat pools at his feet, meshing with every push of the gas pedal. Three — two — he reaches the finish line — _one_ — and hits the brake, veering to the side, swerving in one full blow. Meian pushes down on his timer. 

His heart is pounding and maybe his cheeks are burning as well, the thrill, joy and exhilaration at the cross-roads of his body. Atsumu feels good, racing felt good, this was the kind of thrill he lived for. 

He stumbles out, and a nail-biting grin hooks the edge of his mouth, directly meant for Sakusa. “Am I trustworthy to you now?” he baits. Sakusa peers away, picking at the seams of his gloves. “Trust—” and Atsumu cuts him, unwilling to hear him finish his sentence. 

“Trust no one, I’ve been told.” 

“So Kiyoomi, still having second thoughts?” Meian asks, and Sakusa’s sour expression lingers. 

“Meian-san,” 

“Kiyoomi.”

He crinkles his nose, the rubber of his gloves elastic band tightening around his wrist snaps and he starts walking back. Atsumu smiles, the thrum of heat beating his chest, and he soaks in the sun. His first win, the first battle won but the war won’t be over. He leans back against the graveled pavement, chowing down on the sun. Watching Sakusa’s broad figure walks away as the heat rises, and is rendered futile to appease Atsumu’s curiosity from a distance. 

*

It’s two days later that he sees Sakusa again. He doubts that they’re avoiding each other. They don’t see each other at all, which is less than Inunaki had mentioned. Sakusa works late evenings, tinkering away below the undercarriage of a car for the majority of the day, and Atsumu is sent on errands occasionally, looking for certain gear parts that their shop doesn’t own, visiting parts of Osaka. 

He almost felt like a sheep being herded along and used for errands. He doesn’t mind, it allows him to rediscover the areas that small town Hyogo could never reach. It’s late afternoon and the garage is wide open when Atsumu is returning from a short car ride to Kyoto that he finds Sakusa, back turned to the streets. 

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu sings, and Sakusa’s shoulder twitches in response; obviously he heard him but wishes he didn’t have to acknowledge him. 

“Atsumu,” he answers slowly, like he’s testing the waters of his name against his tongue for the first time. And it probably is , so Atsumu feigns a teary eye, rubbing his cheek to wipe away the nonexistent tear. 

“So you _do_ know my name, I’m honored.” 

“How unfortunate,” Sakusa replies wryly, jaw clenching. 

Atsumu watches silently as their conversation falls short, another first. He notices how pretty Sakusa’s hands are. Most mechanic’s hands are rough, but Sakusa’s nails are clean cut and his cuticles are clear. Underneath his gloves, they’re long and refined, pale in contrast to the pitch black of the leather. They resemble the fingers of a perfectionist, not the manufactured mechanic — crippled, overworked fingers meant to be reconstructed over the years. 

Suddenly, Meian swings open his office door. “Oh, good the both of you are here. The rest of the members are already up to speed.” 

“Meian-san is there something wrong?”

“Nothing of the sorts, I just have an announcement to make.” When both he and Sakusa learn forward in anticipation, Meian continues. “Starting tomorrow, you will be working together. Until the day of the race, Sakusa will be your mechanic, and you, Atsumu, will be his racer.” 

Sakusa seems skeptical, jaw dropping a little. Meanwhile Atsumu raises a brow, equally in shock. He’s being forced to work with a boy who appears to hate him with every bit of his inner strength? “You want us to work together?” he asks, as if he may have misheard.

“For three weeks?” Sakusa adds, and when Meian makes an undeniable nod, Sakusa snorts and rolls his eyes. “No way.” 

Atsumu however, has an idea. “It doesn’t sound too bad, right Omi-kun? Three weeks of not being too annoying to each other for once? How about it?” 

“Do I have any say in the matter?” he asks Meian. And when he shakes his head, Sakusa sighs deeply. “Fine. Three weeks. That’s it.” 

Atsumu smiles, tempted to extend the olive branch even further and go for a handshake. But he doesn’t, and instead simply gains the momentum that thrills through his blood. He’s one step close to victory. 

*

He bought his first unofficial car at seventeen. Osamu accompanied him to the car dealership, a small function an hour away from their apartment that they rented out together. The first he managed to bargain for was an olive painted 1983 Mercedes Benz. It was funky, a bit whimsical, and Atsumu drove it everywhere, picking up Osamu every day from his cashier job at a local convenience store once a week after he received his license. He used it for almost a year before Osamu bought him the cherry red Chevrolet for his eighteenth birthday. Through the rest of the years, minimal damage, some bumps and scrapes but nothing too hefty or beyond Atsumu’s knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to fix. 

Atsumu remembers it all, clear as day and it almost feels like yesterday that he was standing in the middle of a small parking lot, choosing the car that would be the guiding hand to his future triumph. 

*

The days grow hotter, and Inunaki keeps the garage door up when he opens up the shop first thing in the morning. Atsumu supposes he should be used to this kind of humidity, stuck in the verbatim of Los Angeles’s heat, forced to wear sleeveless clothing and keeping the heavy air conditioning machine inside the garage. But now, he’s helping Sakusa (helping as in sitting in a plastic folding chair that dents into his back as he flips through a sports magazine). He’s getting hungry, craving something heavy and hearty just before 12 pm. 

Atsumu gets bored easily, and flips through the rest of the magazine irritatedly before throwing it to the floor in surrounder. “Omi-kun, take a break. I’m feelin’ a lil starved,” he complains. 

Sakusa looks up from underneath the hood of the Toyota Tacoma he’s operating on, sleeved rolled up his biceps, his coveralls falling to his hips as he stares through Atsumu with tired eyes behind his goggles. “There’s a convenience store within one block of walking distance from here that runs 24/7.” He stabs a finger in the direction of outside and Atsumu brushes him off. 

“Come on now, I know yer hungry. There’s a small ramen shop Osamu recommended to me, and it would be a shame to eat comfort food alone,” he begs, offering a sharpened smile. 

“Then get Osamu to go and eat with you.”

“Omi-kun, we’re partners. We gotta form a bond. So consider this,” he gestures between the two of them, pretending to spoon food into his mouth ridiculously as Sakusa's condescending glare appears unamused, “quality bonding time.” He nods sincerely. 

Sakusa sighs (a never ending habit of his) and slams the car hood shut, setting his goggles down. He walks away into the employees room and returns with a thin wallet, tucking in his coveralls, slathered with diesel oil. Atsumu curls his lips in distaste, “Yer gonna wear that?”

“Do you want me to come or not?” 

And so that quickly leaves the conversation dead as they begin to walk the humid block of Osaka. There is some fresh breeze and Atsumu stretches out as he strides down the sidewalk with Sakusa by his side miraculously. Sakusa seems less troubled once he steps outside the garage, a surgical mask tugged above his nose . Atsumu isn’t too surprised to see the mask, since Sakusa’s constantly meddling with oil, grease and fumes most of the day. As Atsumu promises, the walk is short and the chatter is limited — bare even. Sakusa keeps his hands stuck inside his pockets, and Atsumu whistles an english pop tune that he heard in the airport speakers after off-boarding the plane. 

Less than ten minutes later, they arrive at the hole in the wall, a local ramen shop that Osamu mentioned in passing last night. He'd _gone on a date there apparently,_ according to what he said when Atsumu asked about it when he stopped by to help fix the sink.

“After you,” Atsumu offers, widening the door for Sakusa to follow inside. Sakusa only rolls his eyes. 

They get seated, and it’s aching silence. Well, not completely — there’s soft tunes of J-pop overhead and below the table they sit at and the _pitter patter_ of Atsumu’s nails against the wooden table. Sakusa looks out sideways, almost wistful, eyes the window to his soul — curious yet still unreachable. “Your car, it was a Chevrolet right?” 

At the mention of Atsumu’s prized possession, he answers. “It is, I bought her when I was nineteen. ‘Samu said that she should be transported to Osaka in a few days, didn’t know shippin’ a car was so goddamn expensive,” he grumbles. 

“You must’ve worked a lot to afford it, antiques like that don’t come by easily these days.” 

Atsumu cackles offhandedly, “Nah, I bargained for her at a dump of a car dealership. But she works like a charm, after fixing her up these past years, she’s been getting stronger.” 

Their ramen is served, Tonkatsu for Atsumu and Miso for Sakusa. The first few minutes are filled with quiet, slurping their noodles as Atsumu hums in delight, dancing a bit in his seat. It’s been years since he had truly authentic ramen, and even though shopping mart ramen in a styrofoam cup is always refreshing, nothing beats the rich, creamy broth and soft noodles as he eats up the dish hungrily. “Ah, nothing beats this kind of comfort food,” He sighs, setting down his chopsticks. 

Sakusa peers at from his bowl, taking bites cleanly, polished almost as if he was cutting into a piece of roasted sirloin at a high-end restaurant on the other side of Hollywood. “Did you miss it?”

“Definitely,” says Atsumu as he takes a final sip of broth before letting the bowl hit the table again, more careful. “Have you ever been to Los Angeles?”

“I’ve never traveled outside of Japan,” Sakusa answers. He wipes his mouth, the glossy strands of his hair damp under the gleam of the restaurant lighting. They fall in alignment of his eyes, and he sweeps them back, bouncing around his ear. 

“You should visit one day! Maybe I can give you a proper tour of Hollywood.” Atsumu tells him, and Sakusa raises a brow, unopposed but remaining quiet. Maybe there’s a tectonic shift, chipping and rusting between the soft blows of heat around a spoonful of ramen, the clatter of chopsticks, and gaping comfort. 

*

A week and half passes and he’s grown to learn more about Sakusa. It’s not the rapid pace as he had hoped, since Sakusa is more secretive than he really hoped. There’s no palpable help from the rest of the members, seeing as either they’re terribly good with keeping secrets, or Sakusa doesn’t share anything related to his personal life. Atsumu knows the obvious: he lives somewhere near Nagai Park, wakes too fucking early to open up the garage, and wears the same pair of high-quality gloves 98% of the time. Now, none of these observations affect Atsumu in any shape or form, but continues to observe him anyway, 

He notices the way Sakusa wrinkles his nose too often, either in morbid horror or in mild discomfort. How Sakusa uses his pretty, neat hands to grasp the wrench, to coil it in his fingers. How attractive he can be sometimes when he’s attentive. Always attentive, honed, way out of reach and lost in space, loss of destruction and not even Atsumu can parade through his defenses. 

Sakusa has a habit of speaking what’s on his mind, either mumbled or taunted. He cleans his hands constantly, when not operating on a vehicle, and keeps sanitary wipes near his station. Again, all prevalent and understandable information given that he’s a mechanic, working under the soot, fuels, and dirt of a car. As a kid Atsumu always enjoyed getting dirty, and it was part of the fun when he smudged away the grease from his forehead, but Sakusa seems to find this all appalling. 

There are tiny moments that he catches Sakusa, enjoying himself, a soft smile, or a cocky grin across his face, meant only for himself and never to be shared. 

The thing about Sakusa Kiyoomi is that he knows too much about him, while Atsumu doesn’t appear to know anything about him outside of the garage. Atsumu doesn’t mind it though, he’s never been one to back down a challenge. 

So far, Sakusa is the biggest challenge he’s yet to face in all his years of experience on the streets. And just thinking about it makes him feel exhilarated, excited. Atsumu has never lost once, not yet, and he doesn’t plan on losing now.

*

Osamu visits the apartment two nights later, on the exchange of Thai Takeout from the downstairs corner restaurant. Atsumu is a bit sore; he and Sakusa had spent the day outside planning for most of the day and testing out the Cheverlot which had just arrived. He wonders if Osamu had planned this all along, convincing Atsumu to join the Black Jackals. 

Speaking of Osamu, he’s noticed his presence lessening through the week, whether he only stops by the garage once a day to visit Suna who happens to have swung by to speak to Meian, or to be the samaritan younger brother and pick up Atsumu after work.

It’s sort of shallow, to think that Osamu didn’t have a life before Atsumu arrived, but is it cruel of him to think that two halves of a heart — that seeing Osamu it could only feel like he’s pushed at sea. There’s no significant tether that he’s able to locate, once the signs of life, water pooling at his feet and he sinks, lower and lower in the cold waters. For the first time in a while, a fight breaks out between them. Upon normal cases, they’re siblings, still juvenile and petty — they bicker, maybe pinch elbows but in the end, they always make up. 

Osamu begins washing the dishes, the jostling screech of glass against the dish scrubber as his outline arches over the sink, a late evening drawing tired, painted lines; worn out and a monemontous lull in the kitchen. 

“So, have you been talkin’ to Suna lately?”

He doesn’t stop, at Atsumu's sudden question, but his back straightens a bit. “A bit, why?”

“What does he think about you quittin’?”

Osamu is rigid now, assumably because they left this conversation back in Los Angeles, ugly, buried memories of watching the sunset flutter past the horizon, treacherous yellows mixed with deja vu and violet, violent in it’s menacing shade, nightmares could feast on the sunset they observed that day. “I thought we already talked about this,” he says simply. 

“Yeah, well I wanna talk about it again. Quittin’ is not some small decision, it impacted me too.” He pauses, fiddling with the white container, the dish of Gaeng Daeng growing cold on the table, and so he occupies his rambling mouth by shoving the red curry between his lips in wait for Osamu's response. 

Osamu only leans against the sink, gripping it tighter than before, “‘Tsumu, now yer jus’ being childish. Stop bein’ so selfish, you knew that we couldn’t live there much longer, Los Angeles would’ve only been our downfall.” 

“You mean yer downfall. Seein’ the way you act around Suna, he was the chip in yer shoulder, actin’ all pathetic around him. Givin’ up what you love, movin’ back to Osaka.”

“No,” Osamu hisses, squelching out the remaining water in the wet scrub, positioning it back onto the back of the sink, next to the faucet. “You loved street racing, it was you. I only made the sacrifices necessary. As for Rintarou—” and he trails off, and so Atsumu haughtily snorts, getting from beneath the table, legs too large for the eating space. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

Atsumu cocks his head, _understand?_ He couldn’t understand the selfish love, only plausible in the eye’s of a brother who’s half heart and soul belonged to him that he wouldn’t be able to tell that Osamu would probably take a bullet for Suna? “Do enlighten me then.”

And the half-struck tension sets fire in their apartment. It’s never been this, this intense. Usually they would bounce back — in seconds. And when the countdown reaches zero, Atsumu returns to his business. Osamu turns back to finish rinsing the dishes, and Atsumu tumbles the empty take-out containers into a plastic trash bag. And there’s that, another conversation swept under the rug. 

*

Ever since yesterday, Osamu hasn’t called him. Atsumu isn’t bothered, according to Suna (not his own brother) over a 2-minute phone call at 7 in the morning, he was investing in an onigiri shop. To which Atsumu scoffed, and hung up. He doesn’t answer Osamu’s texts, and instead heads over to the garage, earlier than Sakusa. The past day or so, Sakusa was making small repairs on his Chevrolet to make sure it was in perfect condition for the race, and normally Atsumu would be flattered — but in all honesty if they weren’t being forced to pair up and work together, none of this would be happening.

Atsumu spends some time away from the garage, given permission to work with the Dodge Challenger at the tracks, Shouyou and Thomas volunteering to monitor him. They’re both highly encouraging people, which boosts his self-esteem a bit, not that he’s ever lacked confidence in his ability to win a race. Thomas is observant, pointing out small details in his rev matching, understandable seeing as how (similarly to Sakusa) he’s surrounded by cars 24/7. 

“Your braking is lacking somewhat. If you don’t master that skill it’ll make your life hell on the track,” he informs him. Shouyou cheers him on, Meian’s timer in hand and scribbling away small notes in the notepad. Atsumu grinds his teeth, friction against his tires as he steers — careful not to oversteer: the number one thing Suna had taught him. 

He spends most of the morning concentrating on his techniques, reeling into the miniscule mistakes that Thomas points out — he has a good eye for details, Atsumu will give him credit for that. After, Atsumu’s hands feel clammy and his hair feels raunchy from the sweat forming beads below his visor. 

He finds Sakusa after swinging by the convenience store to buy a few yakisoba buns and canned coffee. He drops off the extra full bag in the break room for the rest of the members to find and Inunaki waves a thankful hello minutes later, half a bun stuffed in his mouth. 

He sets down a cold, canned coffee onto Sakusa’s empty workspace. “Hiya Omi-kun.” 

Sakusa slides from underneath the car, soot blotching his cheek, as he wipes it away and wheels out flat against his back. “Oh, it’s you.” And rolls back under. 

“A bit unenthusiastic of you eh,” Atsumu answers. “What’re you doin’?”

“Last minute undercarriage damage repairs. The last thing we need is for you to go out on the streets with a torn muffler.” Sakusa raises a hand, “hand me the extension bar?” 

Atsumu inspects the array of tools in the box and pulls it out, handing it to his extended hand as Sakusa disappears once again beneath the car. “Need any help?”

Sakusa squirms out of the car, twisting a knob before thumping his palm against the metal. “And what help can you provide?”

Atsumu leans forward, so that he’s hovering over Sakusa, slowly and drifting away like a lost man at sea — floating away on a piece of shipwreck. He can smell the motor oil and the slight scent of bergamot as he dangles above him, testing his patience, and enjoying the way Sakusa’s hair flatters his forehead, curling in a thick crown around his head. “Whatever you need, I’m yours Omi-kun.” 

Sakusa drifts away, and Atsumu pauses. Oh god, did that actually come out of his mouth? But there’s an eased smile, cookie cutter and ragged, as he says, “Miya, shut up.” 

“Gladly,” he chirps, and removes himself, far away from Sakusa as he dives back under the car. Sakusa works, Atsumu sits around possibly admiring the arch of his hands artistically calling out to the workings of the undercarriage, careful and cautious. It’s always admiration that Atsumu lets trickle into chest, leaving him dazed and confused. 

He flips the nearby wrench, tossing it between his fingers as it goes round and round in a circle while remembering the steel grip in the palm of his hands until Sakusa calls out, “Hand me that would you.” He dives over, handing him the tool and Sakusaaccepts it. His hands, he’s never really touched them, his wrists are reasonably thin, and the thick mechanic’s glove covers the starting visibility of his veins, vibrant and translucent. His finger accidentally grazes the exposed matter of his wrist, the thick of his palm and Sakusa is warm. 

“Sorry.” Atsumu doubles back, worried that he might’ve gone too far. 

Sakusa ignores him, and answers, “It’s fine.” They move on, just like that. 

*

Time grows closer, a ticking bomb attached to the middle of his chest, cut the wrong wire and a fire will set off inside of Atsumu. He grows closer to the Black Jackals, playing GT Sport with Bokuto at midnight, ordering Yakitori and sipping the Pinot Noir found by chance in Bokuto’s wine fridge. He’sgood company, passionate, loud, and more enthusiastic than the rest of the member’s energy combined. Bokuto is wise, nearly as observant as Thomas, as if he’s stood on the sidelines, inspecting the method of street racing. Shouyou is also good company, and the three of them windle down at the track often times, he learns that Shouyou has a younger sister, who’s attending high school and hopes to follow into his footsteps but he appears somber — and Atsumu almost feels the guilt of Osamu’s words, treading in his path. 

Inunaki and Thomas come in a pair, having been good highschool friends and joined at the hip ever since. Thomas says he’s always been Inunaki’s mechanic, which Atsumu finds almost bittersweet, but not one more sentiment. 

On the other hand, he doesn’t know too much about Meian, other than the certificates on his office wall in english cursive with Meian’s full name and a date labeled ten years ago. There’s also the wedding ring on his fourth finger, and a photo clad in a painted brown frame on his desk; the ring is on his divorce finger and the photo is written in black marker with a date too many years for counting, so Atsumu doesn’t bother. 

Then in the final courtesy of Sakusa Kiyoomi, lies the lingering curiosity shoved further down his throat the more force he uses to enter into his life. Who is he really, how did he and Meian meet? There are too many questions, and not enough answers. 

*

“Omi-kun, can we take a break? It’s gettin’ so damn hot,” he complains. Atsumu rolls up his sleeves, gripping the steering wheel. Sakusa strides into view; Osaka’s heat is unbearable at this early afternoon hour and he’s let his coveralls shrug around his hips, a white tank top,opening up his eager collarbones, pale and fixated daylight along his skin. Atsumu’s mouth almost dries up, and he looks ahead, towards the road as he rolls his window down and Sakusa leans an elbow on the car window. 

“Practice shifting one more time, it’ll help when you drift,” Sakusa instructs, ignoring Atsumu’s plea. 

Atsumu pushes the door, and Sakusa quietly steps back. He holds the clipboard, timer coiled around his free hand. “Ah, I’m tired Omi-kun!” He’s not out of shape, granted this is the most practice he’s done in the past week, his schedule was tightly-packed with team meetings and planning bits with Sakusa — busier than he ever was with Suna in Los Angeles. 

“If you slack off even one bit, you’ll fall behind.” Sakusa presses his lips together in exasperation. 

“Still don’t believe in me yet?” He asks with feigned dishearten. 

“I do believe in you.” 

Atsumu is taken aback, the words do give some relief, in whatever jitters might occur soon however he’s not sure of the weight of sincerity behind them. “You do? Omi-kun, this is the first nice thing you’ve said to me so far. Believe it or not, we’re makin’ progress.” 

“How wonderful,” he replies dryly. 

“Omi-kun, we’re partners.” 

“Stop calling me that, Omi-kun. Call me Kiyoomi.” 

Atsumu wrinkles his nose. The nickname had sprung from him out of nowhere, after hearing Bokuto refer to him as Omi-Omi, or to Shouyou as Omi-san. It was easy on the tongue, less burdened then by the weight of calling him _Kiyoomi._ It felt too intimate, bringing a lover to bed over fold coverlets after dark, sheathed away from appetency. It wouldn’t feel right, almost as awkward as calling him _Sakusa._

“Omi-kun.” He stretches his words soft, carrying in the bits of wind, rousing the nape of Sakusa’s neck, curls wicked to the heat as he curls his lip, unsatisfied. 

_Oh_ , neither of them would ever be satisfied at this rate. 

*

The day of the race rolls around, faster than anticipated and in the blink of an eye, Atsumu is waking up, late as Meian had informed him that the race wouldn’t be started until dawn. He receives a short text from Suna reading: _good luck._ He supposes that he should be honored, maybe alleviated of stress as Suna had contacted him, reached out first. Given also, that they never exchanged numbers after he left Los Angeles two years ago. It was an unknown number but he didn’t need to ask twice who it was in order to put two and two together. 

He shoves three bananas in his mouth, waiting around the couch, not sure the regulations and logistics of the race entirely, even though Meian had sat them all down yesterday, Atsumu was too busy paying attention to Sakusa unfortunately. 

The race was taking place in Sakai, near the countryside of Osaka. Upon arriving, he felt out of place, heads didn’t turn his way, whispers hadn't broken out between the crowd, which was packed. Meian never truly did mention how populated this race would be with spectators. Apparently in Sakai, the laws were less monitored and multiple races were held there, unlike Los Angeles where street racing was a heavy fine to pay if caught, that is, unless you were hard to catch, and under the radar. It was also deadly, one wrong swerve, and you might land in a ditch, or with your car slashed up beyond recognition. 

Sakai’s fields flutter, grass rapid pace to the blueish scheme of the starting sunset. His heels dig into the dirt, grass grazing his legs as he walks through. He spots Shouyou in the distance, speaking to Sakusa excitedly. 

Sakusa wears those same damn grey coveralls, a jacket thrown over his shoulder in the chillier weather out in the countryside. “Got all dressed up for me Omi-kun?” He strolls up to them, hands in pockets giving a willing smile. 

He receives an enthusiastic handclap from Hinata, before he bounces off, looking for an old friend who happened to be attending the race tonight. “Did you dress properly?” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes, kicking out his leather boots. “I’m not a stranger to this shit, it’s not my first time.” And then he reaches into leather jacket pocket, and remembers that he left his gloves on the dining room table. “Ah shit, I forgot my gloves — lemme go see if Shouyou has an extra pair to spare.” 

“No, don’t bother.” Sakusa draws out a fair of fine, thick leather gloves from his back pocket. “Here.” And hands them to Atsumu. 

He raises a brow, in astonishment, somewhat flattered as he slides them onto his hands. They fit perfectly. 

Sakusa leads him to the roads, open fields, and he wonders how far the city would be, if he reached out and plucked the looming stars dispensing from the sky. “Wow, the view is incredible,” he says, nearly breathless. 

“Here, wear this earpiece,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu leans in. It’s a silent language of the flowers, azaleas blooming like hope, and maybe success as Sakusa pushes back the wisps of hair behind Atsumu’s ear, tucking the earpiece inside, and hooking it on the outside shell with ease. 

“Thanks.” 

“Always.” Sakusa murmurs, perhaps a lingering touch against his neck, shivering and enigmatic to the smell of diesel and rubber. 

“Yer not gonna wish me good luck or something’?” He asks. 

“Miya.” 

“Yes, Omi-kun?” 

Sakusa diverts his gaze, nudging Atsumu forward. “Just win.” 

And Atsumu’s eyes crinkle with excitement, amusement hidden underneath. “Easier said than done.” 

*

He’s driving, as soon as the starting pistol booms. It’s not as loud, ringing in the middle of the countryside, echoing like madness in his ears as he steps on the gas pedal. Atsumu knows that despite being meters away, Sakusa would be right next to him, guiding him along the way only when needed. The set up almost felt professional like he was an actual racer for a split second and he laughs, stepping on the accelerator. His start was decent, as he passed by a Mistsubishi. 

Thanks to Sakusa’s extra repairs, driving his Cheverlor is smoother, much smoother than riding on Los Angeles's bumpier roads, pavement scraping the underpart of his car. “Nice job on repairs.” He says, avoiding the small bump on the road as he drives down the clearer fields of Saiki. 

“Drive, you're lagging behind now.” Sakusa orders, voice clear through the earpiece. 

“Alright, alright.” And he continues to accelerate, steering easily as Atsumu brakes on the winding road, losing the Subaru WBX that was nearing his behind to the right of him and the Toyota Corolla to his left. 

There’s a small drag, and Atsumu realizes that he’s a bit behind. Sakusa seems to have noticed this as well and he mumbles a quick _shit_ as Atsumu quickly steps on the gas. Accelerating faster, turning his wheel to avoid the railing, Atsumu feels it, the same drug of excitement, annihilation piercing his bones, cramping in his bone-filed fingers, hooked on fish lining to the heated material of his wheel. 

“Pick up the speed, you're in fifth place.” 

“I’m aware”. Atsumu hisses, and he’s turning around the circle again, the big loop of fields, azaleas hunting him, the ghost of Sakusa leering behind — the reflection dawns on him, glistening and Atsumu snaps his focus to the road ahead. 

“Hurry up, at this rate you’ll be in last place.” 

Atsumu takes it upon himself to throw the earpiece onto the passenger seat, cutting off Sakusa’s voice — the gulf of water, cutthroat inside of him bubbles, and steams as he takes a deep breath. He’s maybe 2 kilometers from the last lap, finishing as cars whizz by, breeze hitting him ruthlessly in the gut, at arms of his chest. His chest is burning, as he turns the bend of his steering wheel slowly, holding the clutch as he spins. 

He’s spinning, it’s slow, until he stops. Because he’s lost control. Atsumu panics, trying to steer away from the edge. He’s always on the edge, perhaps teetering on the edge of the world. He jerks, the push of his seat belt and his head hits the back of the seat, there’s a small wall, bearing off the end of the city lines. 

And next, he’s gone. 

Atsumu tries to stay awake. There’s the smell of oil, Sakusa’s glove scalding to his palace and he rips them off. There’s smoke in his mouth, and the burn releases down to his legs, shaking like jelly. He reaches for the door handle, his head aches, like the sea splitting open and swallowing him whole. Atsumu reaches out, tripping on his feet, the finish line — in view, and so far. A pity. 

It doesn’t matter, he’s already lost. His hand scrapes the roads, the sunset bleeds, azaleas blossom gruesomely and he lets his head rest against the road. There are voices, distorted. A distant ring, vibrating and he can feel his name being called — or was it all a dream? Atsumu dreams that he’s in Los Angeles, eating a greasy cheeseburger, picking up a toss of salty fries and clinking soda glasses with his brother, with Suna. Like how it was always supposed to be. 

Them against the world. 

Now, he thinks he’s hearing Sakusa, the storm of feet to the ground as his fingers feel bruised, his rib cage holding out as he wheezes. Atsumu looks up, the sunset returns, sorrow elongated to Sakusa’s jawline. There’s worry, he thinks, maybe concern. The echo of his voice as the lasting sun breezes through his hair, cheekbones redundant in its full glory. God. He looks unreal. Unreal, and Atsumu is sort of screwed. Because everything hurts, and he’s laying down on the ground as the whole world shifts and there’s Sakusa Kiyoomi staring right above — the last thing he sees before he passes out. 

“Atsumu.” He hears, is the last thing whispered to him. Desperately soft, waxing a piece of his heart, melting in a cauldron and as he closes his eyes. The waves are subtle, tossing him ashore and he so finally sleeps. 

*

His dream is how he imagined it. Sitting in the front passenger seat of his Chevrolet as Osamu returns into view and he hands Atsumu a cold bottle of soda. It runs down his throat, chilled, mounts of ice cutting at his neck and he chokes. Atsumu is running in his dreams, he tends to run away these days. From racing, from Osaka then returning back to the bean of shrouding light that beckons Atsumu — his legs are the wheels barricading the insides of the engine, bleeding with the runny mix of blood and gasoline. Sakusa happens to appear in his dream while he sleeps. He’s not sure for how long he’s slept for, maybe minutes, or even hours. 

Slowly, his vision comes back and Atsumu blinks awake. He shuts his eyes closed, the white light overhead him is blinding as he winces. He pats whatever’s near him, hoping to get a grasp, he’s not on the pavement, the fresh scent of grass no longer inhaled, and he sees Osamu across from him, hunched in an armchair. His neck crooked, legs tucks under, and it’s like almost endearingly gentle, that Atsumu feels the similar guilt whenever he looks at him. Los Angeles, high-school, racing, buried guilt is a treasure baited to be dug up, a lore of interior mysterious building up sensation in a castle tower. 

“‘Samu,” he calls out, his chest still hurts, his head doesn’t appear to be cracked in half, that was a good sign. He does feel delirious, as Osamu sits up, rushing over to the bed where Atsumu laid. 

“Yer awake.” Osamu sits down on the plastic chair, being dragged at the small hospital room desk.

Atsumu musters the best grin he can. It's sort of painful, his teeth ache. His whole body aches, it felt like he had been run over. _Hell,_ he may as well have gotten run over in compensation for how sore he felt. “Didja’ think I was better off dead or somethin’?”

Osamu frowns, suddenly serious. “God, yer such an idiot. What the hell were you thinkin’?!”

“I thought I was ready.” 

He throws his hands up, dramatic just a bit for Atsumu’s taste, as he bites back with; “You thought you were ready? Driftin’ isn’t something you can just decide on a whim, it takes years.” 

Atsumu forces himself to stare away, keep away the anger, the shame and pain at bay.”Like I said, I thought I was ready. I know how to drift, I could’ve won—” 

“But you lost.” Osamu answers, finishing his sentence. _How kind._ Voice pitched soft, fragmented like broken glass and Atsumu stepped around the distmantelled room in search of the door. 

“Are you angry at me?”

“Should I be?”

“Is Meian?” Osamu falls back into his chair, quiet, and Atsumu wonders if he thinks that there’s another name on the tip of his tongue. But turns away, “How bad is it?”

“What?” Osamu has opened up a cooking and fine winery magazine, the cover haunting Atsumu, bright smiles and the shine of the cover glistening to the open windows of his hospital room. He shifts, fixing his pillow, and Osamu licks the corner of the page to flip to the next one. 

“The damage.” 

He honestly doesn’t want to know, and yet it’s ok his tongue is like liquid acid, the delirium of the rush, the rush of reality, sitting helpless in bed with stitches and bandages wrapped around his body. “The wreckage was pretty severe.” And he closes the magazine for a brief second. “Any other questions?”

Atsumu yawns before turning in the direction of the window, outlooking the city, the window is porcelain glass, in fibers that ripple from his chest as the heat from the sun purrs against his back. “Yeah, how long was I out for?”

Osamu snorts, in all decency. “Two days."

*

The hospital keeps him for the rest of the week, being released on Friday with aspirin and pain-killer medication in case his head begins hurting. Osamu chews him out several times after their initial conversation. Luckily, a friend of Osamu’s is able to keep them out of the doctor’s eye, how could he explain how he managed to scrap by a car accident with a broken elbow and bruised ribs — and the worst fucking headache. 

Osamu helps him into his apartment, and as soon as he swings the door open he expects the mess that he left, but there’s no take-out containers molding away on the counter, or the few empty sake bottles he’d shared with Bokuto and Inunaki the night before the race. It’s clean, spotless as he drops the mediation bag on the dining table, his bed frame had been fully repaired, leaning against the back wall in the next room. “Nice ‘welcome home’ gift.” 

He receives a laugh, keys thrown next to his medicine as Osamu answers, “I didn’t do this.” Atsumu hums, and tosses himself gently on the couch, reaching for the remote control. “I’m takin’ a nap,” Osamu announces before heading into Atsumu’s room, and shutting the door behind him. 

He wonders if he’s planning on calling Suna, in the slivers of half-wakened consciousness during the middle of the night Atsumu knows that he was on the phone with him, softened and hushed voices being exchanges and in the midst of the pain and wondering he genuinely wonders if they’ve exchanged ‘i love you’s. 

But he’s not sure what kind of love his brother is so full of, or what love does to Osamu. 

He lowers the volume, the smell of bleach and lavender wafting around his apartment as he hears a knock on the door. Atsumu panics, Osamu was in the other room and he was nearly incapable of walking, with the arm in a sling. Or he was just too lazy. “It’s open.” He yells to the door, as it opens slowly. 

Then, followed by Inunaki and Thomas are Hinata and Bokuto, Bokuto who wields a bouquet of flowers and balloons thumping against the ceiling. “As soon as we heard that you got released, we sprinted from the garage,” Thomas kindly explains as to why they were standing in his living room, and Bokuto walks over, handing him the bouquet of flowers. 

“Glad to see you’re doing well Tsum-Tsum.” They exchange a fist bump as Bokuto steps back wandering into the kitchen. 

“So,” Inunaki begins, clapping his back and Atsumu yelps. “How’re you feeling?”

Atsumu dryly laughs, “Like shit. Thanks for askin’ man.” 

Inunaki clasps his shoulder, “Anytime.” 

“So, who cleaned my apartment? They did a pretty damn good job.” Atsumu says, and the group meets with dubious stares. 

Shouyou smiles, adding a pillow to Atsumu’s back. “Oh, Omi-san did. He spent a few days here fixing it up,” and he rolls his eyes, “it’s not some big secret, stop looking at me like that.” 

“I see.” Inunaki stares at him, oddly and it’s different because it’s like he knows something that Atsumu doesn’t. Thomas nudges him, whispering among them. They stay a while, offering to cook him dinner —it’s mostly Thomas who’s apparently a more than decent cook and the others nodding along. But he politely declines, and soon they file out of his apartment. 

And he’s alone, Osamu snores trickling from the other room. His arm sling is an anchor, pulling him further and further into an abyss of confusion, loneliness and the emptiness that he once felt upon arriving in Osaka. 

*

The doctors order him to stay on bed rest for two weeks and avoid using his arm. He plays video games on his phone, cramped on the couch for most hours or walking to and from the bathroom with a slight struggle. Shouyou offers to bring him dinner when Osamu is occupied with the current renovations of the new onigiri shop. As for Suna, well god knows what he knows if he’s not hanging around Meian perhaps. Osamu visits him, announcing that with the rapid healing of his arm and rib cage he would be allowed to return to the garage, under careful surveillance. 

Mixed emotions of delight, eagerness, and regret all blended together when Osamu picked him up in his Mazda. Winding the streets of Namba, it’s quieter, most of the silence fills the car as he leans his head against the window while staring out. Atsumu readjusts the strap of his sling and Osamu’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “I’m fine,” he breaks the silence. 

“I know.” 

Atsumu is the first one to step out of the car, and when he stares at Osamu, waiting for him to follow he says, “I’ll follow behind.” 

It feels odd, to step into a place that becomes your home, but now feels like a hotel. Foreign, new, untouched. A replacement of what things once were. A ghost appears in the garage, searching for a home, and Atsumu enters the open garage. In the last lane, there’s Sakusa, fixated looking above at the hanging Lexus. He takes a step forward when he hears Meian behind him, “Good to see that you’re back.” 

Atsumu turns, chuckling sheepishly, almost embarrassed. “Thank you for having me back, I—”

“It’s alright. We have a lot to discuss. But not now.” Meian rests a hand on his shoulder, reassuringly. 

Sakusa is there, awaiting with his back turned. “Sakusa,” not Omi-kun, not now. _Omi-kun,_ tethers to the shore, a lifeline washing at sea. 

He turns, a deep frown that morphs into indifference. “Miya. Glad to hear to see that you’re alive.” 

It’s so easy, to lose hope, hope that dims the solemn look Atsumu once wore. “Is that so, didja miss me too much?” 

“How’s your arm?”

He shrugs him off, lifting his arm up a bit. “It’s fine, just a bit broken. But it’s healing. Guess I got lucky.” 

Sakusa drops his wrench, crossing his arms. “Lucky? You could’ve broken more than a rib cage, or even worse died.” 

“It’s not my first time getting a bit scratched up Omi-kun, don’t worry about it alright.” 

“You’re my responsibility, Atsumu.” _Oh, he’s Atsumu now. In the grave solace of comfort, it’s nicely placed on his tongue, wrapped around the coils of Sakusa’s voice._ “We’re partners, remember?”

“Partners?” and he grasps the nearby column, separating the car lanes. “Didn’t I say that I would win? Doesn’t sound like partnership to me.” 

Sakusa is silent, and Atsumu scoffs, scrubbing his eyes of dry tears. “Winning isn’t everything.”

“It is to me.” Atsumu comes closer as Sakusa pulls the lever to lower the car. Sakusa slides off his gloves, and slips off his working goggles. Sakusa subtly twitches at his presence, there’s a significant amount of irresistibility surrounding him, like the smell of ashes, and cologne and diesel oil. But Atsumu is familiar with it, he’s learned that Sakusa’s left pinkie is scarred from a paper cutting accident, and that he uses Aloe Vera to smooth away the wrinkles he gains working in the garage. 

“Your car,” Sakusa starts, “It had significant damage, but Meian’s letting me fix it. Probably won’t take more than a week. I’ve been working on it ever since you got admitted into the hospital.” 

Atsumu smirks, glee shoots up his spine. “Have you been waiting for me Omi-kun?” With the one free hand, he slowly reaches for Sakusa, naked fingers that are restored in it’s deeming glory, 

He’s also familiar with the brilliant dim in his eye as he crouches in front of Atsumu’s car with concentration, Atsumu wants to become familiar with the way he laughs, or poorly smiles. His hands lather in oil and grease and Atsumu wants to devour heart and soul. “Miya, what are you doing?” 

Atsumu halts and stares, too deeply and too profoundly. “Teach me Omi-kun.” He whispers. 

Sakusa closes his eyes, quick-faced eyelashes taking flight, ebony in midnight candescence. If he spoke, nothing would matter. In the slow motion of time, adhering to the deepness of his collarbone or the sculpting of his neck, pale to the silver shine of the reflecting tools next to him. “Alright,” he whispers back. And Sakusa doesn’t retract his hand, not in seconds or in minutes, and so they start there.

It’s a good beginning. 

*

Atsumu follows, listening to Sakusa as he informs him of the repainting job he planned on doing, in order to recover the luscious red shade that his Chevrolet once was. It felt too intimate, oddly. Discussing these predicaments, casual and gentle because he does appear to be enjoying himself. “Hey Omi-kun?”

Sakusa turns, a slight rise of the brow to inform them that he’s listening. “Where’d you learn all of this?” And he moves over, to switch the gear. 

He returns to tightening the air filter. “Believe it or not, I used to race. When I quit high school and focused on training. But then, a good friend of Meian’s, it was Barnes that suggested go into mechanics. And taught me everything I knew.” 

Ah, that explains it. The desire, and distinguished drive, it’s the same he’d seen in himself. “You’ve must’ve not been too terrible,” 

A snort, “Perhaps.” 

“Where is he now, your mentor?” 

“He passed away a few years ago.” Atsumu bows his head, and he remembers the trace of lettering engraved in the certificates sitting on Meian’s shelf, the one tacked against his wall. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Sakusa pinched at the fliers in his hand, wiping his gloves against each other. “It was a long time ago.” 

“What was he like?” Atsumu wonders how far he can go, to what extent can he prod and push and let Sakusa open up, like a cracked walnut under the splitting jaw of a nutcracker ready to burst out secrets. 

An outline of a distant, wistful smile. “He was kind hearted. Sort of like Meian-san.” And he gazes towards Atsumu. That look was new, gentle, not so raw and anger-filled. “You two would’ve gotten along well.” 

“You think so?” Atsumu asks, a brush of a hesitant hand, it never takes flight — it finds a home; new territory. 

“Yeah.” 

*

He visits the garage a fews days a week, when Osamu isn’t sending him home to rest, though he does feel better, this arm getting itchy, but movable. The sling is beginning to set into effects of his daily life, not being able to move his dominant arm. Hinata continues his weekly visits, refusing to leave until Atsumu eats something sufficient. He appreciates the concern, and Hinata brings tupperware containers of Soba and fatty tuna rolls. He briefs Atsumu about the daily occurrences inside the shop, the few customers he met with, Sakusa Kiyoomi. He doesn’t ask to be briefed about him, but Shouyou does so anyway. 

_“Shouyou, thank you,”_ he tells him later that evening when Hinata sits beside him on the couch, opening up the plastic tupperware of Nikujaga. His smile is tumultuous, and genuine as he pats Atsumu’s thigh and hands him a spoon. 

He visits Sakusa, and also his Chevrolet. Meian advises that he avoid contact with his car, but Atsumu refuses. There is no true spike in their partnership, Sakusa is the same, sulky, brutish and Atsumi is similar; constantly poking at the side of his barriers, teasing him with every chance he gets. They haven’t spoken about it, what happened in the past — their argument, or the seething calamity of their hands, reaching outwards to each other. 

Meian allows him back onto the track days later, promising not to overwork his arm. Sakusa accompanies him, and the weather is mildly humid, but a bitter, a consuming kind of heat — yet not overpowered. He wears cargo pants, tucking his hand in the back pocket as he waits for Sakusa to follow. The light windbreaker gusts into the wind, as he waves over Sakusa who’s some distance away now. Atsumu begins with warm-ups doing a few laps around the track, Sakusa monitoring and taking notes, inspecting Atsumu’s drive. 

“So, how is it? How did I do?”

“Fine, your pace is a bit slow, but that’s understandable. Make sure not to overwork your arm, and keep your chest up.” He answers. 

_Your pace is slowing down,_ Suna used to tell him. When he first bought his car, and met Suna the first time—he was quite blunt, giving advice while deemed helpful for the rest of his life. His words weren’t harsh, not like Sakusa. But in the end, it comes in a circle of good-hearted. Practicing braking in the parking lot, doing turns in the Valley’s with Osamu at the end of the road, timer and holding a bottle of water for Suna. Because even at 17, his younger brother would never recognize the difference between love and admiration. 

“Not the first time I heard that,” 

Sakusa suppresses his frown, but fails miserably. “Miya, focus.” 

“I am.” He hisses back and then adds, “I’m trying.” Because he didn't want to sound like a complete asshole. 

The wind keeps the spilling strands of ink against the flat of Sakusa’s neck, curling around his ear, as he scrutinizes Atsumu above the oblivious sun. He looks lovely, sort of well-kept in his painted aura, If there only wasn’t the reeking smell of oil, of slight concentration of fumes diffused in the air, then maybe he would tread lightly towards Sakusa, there’s a sill, a frame of seams that divides Atusumu — his decisions, his impulsivity. It’s what drives him forward. 

He’s a statue, unspoken and running a hasty hand through the thin curls on his head, as Sakusa smirks, mellow like the waiting decimation of sitting peacefully. There’s a pond, a threshold of chartreuse and juniper lily pads, a tint of orchid and Atsumu sits on a bench. in this daydream. Sakusa by his side, alone by a pond, comes the serene silence. And it’s comfort, the first true comfort he’s faced in a while. 

*

“Omi-kun,” 

Sakusa turns, he’s always turning, in full rotation-- never facing fears. “Hmm?”

“Yer not the worst partner in the world, surprisingly.” 

The silhouette of a smile, maybe fully sheathed and unhidden. “Is that so Miya?”

“Don’t get it twisted.” Atsumu adds, “Our partnership has a long way to go.” 

The world is reborn, a flight of airborne fulfillment, enlightened in the world of Sakusa’s eyes. “Good thing we have all the time in the world, right?”

*

It’s a first, that Atsumu invites Sakusa over. After Hinata had graciously dropped off the take-out containers loaded in a bag, he felt that it was too much for one person. Naturally, he would invite Osamu to help him eat it, but he isn’t answering his texts, and the status of his phone runs red for “busy.” He doesn’t have his number, which is the first problem, but messages Inunaki in request for it. Who responds quickly, with the 7-digits. 

Sakusa picks up after the third ring, “Alright, I’ll be there in ten,” he answers after. Their over the phone conversion lasts for less than a minute, longer than most. 

Atsumu paces around his apartment. He’s not nervous. Well, theoretically, this wouldn’t be the first time Sakusa was inside, counting the time Atsumu was knocked out in a hospital bed with a broken rib and arm for two days while Sakusa was sweeping his floors. There were jitters, as the doorbell rings and he strides long steps to reach the door. “Omi-kun, glad you could make it,” he greets. Sakusa holds up a six-pack of Sapporo, and Atsumu takes it appreciatively. “A house warming gift?”

“I’ve already been inside before, remember? Can I come in?” And Atsumu bows a bit, widening the door as Sakusa walks in, sliding off his boots in the foyer. 

“I apologize, it’s a bit of a mess. All yer hard work went to waste,” he says over his shoulder, leading Sakusa over to the kitchen area. 

Sakusa doesn’t seem too bothered, going over to the faucet to wash his hands presumably. “It doesn’t matter.” 

They begin eating, Atsumu with his uninjured elbow to the counter, leaning into taking a bite of the margarita pizza. Sakusa has taken a seat on the bar stool, the tv hazy in the background, winking around his shadow, the delicate hand around the crust as he eats quietly. Everything about him is so clean, and proper if you forget that he’s drowning in gasoline and diesel oil almost 24/7. “How is it?”

“Good.” 

Atsumu chuckles, sucking the tomato sauce off his fingers; sweet and rip like tomato peels around his skin. “You want a beer?” and he nods around the mouthful of pizza, covering his mouth as he chews. Eyebrows pieced together while he concentrates, like he knits them together while he works, and focuses, or how his cheek twitches. Atsumu pops open the pill tab, sliding the can in front of Sakusa. He takes a short sip, flushes and turns away. 

Atsumu pulls on his own beer can, having a taste of his own. Letting the crisp, refreshing tang slither down his throat, and he sighs in content. The sun has fully disappeared by now, cowering behind the horizon of buildings, mountains in a bird’s eye of Osaka. It’s peaceful, bathing in the lesser tension and Atsumu stares, not bashfully because that wouldn’t be polite but he notices how Sakusa swallows, his neck sways, milky collarbones underneath the bomber jacket he wears, hair falling in ringlets, tied in a messy man bun. 

Sakusa helps wash the dishes, while Atsumu busies himself cleaning up the counter, which didn’t need much maintenance. It was around eleven by the time they finished cleaning up. Atsumu pauses, because where does he proceed next?

“It’s getting’ late, I should probably head home.” Sakusa says, flipping his wrist to give a glance at his watch. 

“No, stay.” Atsumu blurts out. Sakusa stares at him, and he elaborates with, “I mean, it’s already gotten dark. I have a couch to spare, you probably shouldn’t drive with alcohol in yer system.” 

Sakusa nods, silently agreeing he hopes. “Could I use your bathroom?” 

And he disappears, for a few minutes as Atsumu finishes tidying up, the bathroom faucet running, and the sound of paper ripping bounces around the walls. He pulls out the blankets he’d used before the bed frame had arrived from inside the closet. Sakusa comes back, his face wet and jacket thrown on his shoulder as he sets it down at the back of the couch. 

“If you need me, I'll be down the hall.” He points, but Atsumu feels foolish as Sakusa already knew this and he sits on his heels waiting for a reaction as he watches him gather himself under the blankets comfortably. 

Sakusa holds a hand to the lamp, and says, “Good night, Miya.” 

The night goes cold, riddled and frigid chills deep through as Atsumu wants to run a hand to his cheek, let the blood trickle through glass, when the knife is no longer dull. But Sakusa looks so rested, when his eyes are finally closed. Peace tangling in his long, fluttering eyelashes. Like no more disturbances were harboring at shore. 

“Good night.”

*

He tries not to dream that night. It fails, he has too many dreams these days; an oasis on a distant island, a forest fire — the wasteland that parts the limbs of Atsumu’s bones, and he’s waking up in the middle of the night. Stumbling through his bed sheets, feet in shambles as he attains a glass of sink water, lukewarm and a swamp in his mouth. His fantasies consist of Los Angeles, driving through the suburban roads, the wind in his bones. 

In tonight’s dream, he’s driving his cherry bullet of a Chevrolet, riding the streets of Hollywood boulevard with Sakusa in the passenger seat. He’s wearing these obnoxious pair of brown-tinted Ray Ban sunglasses, slid to the edge of his nose as he appears disposed, the sunlight creasing his ivory linen shirt, the hem tattering to the wind, the shadow of his chest, the outline of his back. 

“This is a nice dream,” Sakusa murmurs, eyes half-closed, soaking the sun’s heat, flattering to his forehead, the glow of his cheeks. The Hollywood sign, indenting the dark swallow of his eyes, as it appears in the background while they drive. 

Atsumu drinks him in, the unfaithfulness of reality, how unreal, yet realistic a dream could be, if he so desires it to be. “Is it time to wake up already?” He asks, his voice pitching higher, a rise of complaint bubbling from his throat. 

“Are you ready?” 

He looks over, the curve of the sunglasses imprinting his cheek like a memorable scar, the smell of cranberries, and lysol. “Will you be there, when I awaken?”

And it’s possible, that Los Angeles shines brighter than the warmth basking coveted ache, quenched thirst and undiscovered hunger prepped to be unearthed. 

*

Meian notifies Atsumu a week later that there’s a second race next Saturday. He feels uneasy, gripping the wooden arm while he allows for him to continue. _“If you’re not ready, then I’ll have Hinata take over.”_

“No, I’ll do it. I’ve healed. Doctor’s orders are for me to take it easy. But I want to — I need to race,—” he’s unable to form his words, getting choked up. 

And Meian nods, in clear understandment. _“You don’t need to explain,”_

Sakusa mentioned that most of the interior repairs of his car were fixed, and the paint job would need to be dry a little longer. Thomas has sworn that it was a miracle that wasn't complete engine damage, mostly exterior, his bumper and his headlights were cracked. Other than the minor scratches from skidding on the wall, Sakusa had informed him that nothing was too severe however he has a feeling that he only told Atsumu that to ward him off from constantly hovering over his shoulders and spending too much time in his studio. 

“Miya, are you busy right now?” Sakusa peeks his head around the corner of the parking lane, where most cars are moved to be fixed. 

“Not at all, what’s up?” he answers, smiling lopsidedly as he watches Sakusa slide off his gloves, dropping them on his workspace table. 

Hands willowy, svelte, maybe carved of marble in a past painter’s life. Where there is an oil canvas seated at the top of a hill, a house made of corpses, the riveted drag of humiliation, fragility smoking the windows. 

“I wanted to show you something.” 

He leads him to the last lane, where Atsumu’s Cheverlot resides. And another miracle; he takes a step, tracing the hood, polished and shimmering in the yellow lights of the garage. “Holy shit,” Sakusa gives him a deafening stare and he scrambles to say, “Yer incredible Omi-kun, is she almost done?” 

“Just a little longer.” He promises. 

Atsumu bumps his shoulder, “Yer truly a piece of work.” 

Sakusa rolls his eyes drastically, “Don’t say that, you sound foolish.” 

He digs graves into his eyes, shoveling an oath underground, beyond the piles of dirt in his frenum. And they remain there, for who knows how long and Atsumu feels impatient, he was going to win this time. 

_(Maybe I’ll win for you next time?)_

_No._

*

The night before, Inunaki invites them all to izakaya across the street of the shop, a bare block on foot. The place is warm, fluorescent shades, darker tones that set a blaze and Atsumu likes the atmosphere, not too noisy, a family-friendly izakaya owned by an elderly couple. 

The team are seated by the wall, across from the open double paneled windows, widened seams and the heavy footsteps of the outside world in hermitted solitude. Meian is seated at the head of the long table, Inunaki directly in front of him, and Sakusa tasked with handling wrangling him and Bokuto. Sakusa sits there idly, speaking softly to Hinata across the table, a curve of a reaching smile tipping over the brink. A black turtleneck covering up the longitude of his neck, there’s a shiny silver stud earring in his left ear that’s been there before. His hair is messed up, mused and in a heart shaped curve around his forehead. 

He makes eye contact with Sakusa when he takes a sip of water, the shocking cold taste stinging his teeth and he tore his eyes away. There’s a tenuous line of charcoal, grease deliberating a shine in his pupils, glossy under the table light looming over them. “Are you gonna order?” Bokuto breaks the barrier between his thoughts, as he snaps awake and returns his attention back to the izakaya, and so Bokuto takes one look at the menu and orders a bottle of Shochu. 

Atsumu chuckles, gratitude on the tip of his tongue as he says, “Bokkun, you didn’t havta do that,” he lightly complains. 

“You gotta win the race tomorrow, right? So, drink well Tsum-Tsum!” And he claps his back, not as harshly as he would under normal circumstances. 

“Thanks.” 

From the corner of his eyes, he knows, he sees Sakusa take a cautious sip of water, hands flat against the table. Their drinks all return minutes later, and Meian begins the toast, “I appreciate all you being here, it’s been months since we’ve had a new member join us.” And he lifts his drink in Atsumu’s direction. “We’ve come very far, and I understand that tomorrow’s race, it’ll be like any other, whether we win or lose, we have the Black Jackals, a home to return to.” Hinata begins pouring the sake, taking a long smile to Atsumu when he holds up his cup. 

“Kanpai!” They all yelled, luckily Thomas who’d made the reservations had reserved a private room, and their shouts of excitement were sealed from one side of the wall. Atsumu takes a drink, sweetish and yet savory as he finishes his first cup and sets it down on the table. 

The last izakaya he’s been to was a year ago, when Suna had taken him to Little Tokyo on the outskirts of Downtown Los Angeles for the first time. It was his second win, and he tried sake for the first time, wiping the fruity, and nuttier drink, the aroma remaining on his lips for the rest of the night. He was granted, underage, but Suna had had connections to the owner, and so that incident was a pass, yet unforgettable.

An hour later, he felt cramped. The room was noisy, busy with the server. Bokuto pokes his shoulder, “Order something else,” He encourages, and begins to ramble a ton of dishes to the server, who’s scrambling away to write their order and dashes away. 

“Ah— Bokkun, I’m already startin’ to get full. You don’t needa do that.” Atsumu protests. 

“I don’t wanna hear any of that! After all, it’s all gonna be going on Meian-san’s tab anyway!” Meian rolls his eyes a bit, fond of surveying the crew from the head of the table. 

Ten minutes later, he brushes his pants and excuses himself for fresh air. The whole atmosphere is so warm, and candescent, and just brimming with life that Atsumu has to stray away. He’s never been surrounded by that many people in his life, the liveliness of Osaka was truly handed to him on a silver platter. Outside, the night is clear, the breeze winding his cheeks, hollowing out as he sticks his hands into his jacket. Three footsteps behind, as Atsumu huffs-- “Got sick of the crowd already Omi-kun?” 

“Same as you I suppose.” Sakusa answers, kicking the small patch of pebbles. 

“Omi-kun?” he calls out to him, three steps ahead, or behind. 

“Hmm.” Sakusa’s hands. He could’ve been a pianist in another life, pearls are the knobs of his knuckles meant to play a sorrowful tune. 

“Do you wanna find a quiet place, somewhere where we could talk?” Atsumu proposes. 

“I think I know a good place.” 

*

They walk to an empty area, sort of a park, but mostly the wrestle of surrounding trees and leaves picking up from the sidewalk fill the night air. A bench, crushed grass against his feet and its deja vu sweeping him away into the sky -- Sakusa is his equilibrium, keeping him steady when most needed. It’s bare, but the pond near the end of the trail in the distance, rippling leisurely. Atsumu kicks at the rocks, cutting glass at his reflection, marble, and stone dicing at Narcissus’s mirror. 

“Do you wanna sit?” Atsumu points over to the bench as Sakusa silently nods and leads the way, he sits, at the end of the seat, because he’s never too close to him. No matter how much the gravitational pull, or the end of the magnet pulls them together -- he’s precautious, never overstepping boundaries. 

There’s a chandelier of stars, the prism of a star streaking the night, painting with the future, unknown and eager to begin. “God, the night is so clear tonight. Maybe we’ll get a shooting star eh?” Atsumu ventures, looking up, and he notices that Sakusa does the same. 

“What would you wish for?” 

Atsumu leans backwards, the flat of his back hitting the bench --- patterned holes poking at his shoulder blade. “Me?” crossing his arms, he thinks about it. Would he wish for the swift return to Los Angeles? He would return to his old life, the crappy studio apartment he and Osamu used to share. “Nothing really as of right now. I’m pretty satisfied.” 

Sakusa appears surprised, more taken off guard by Atsumu’s honest answer. “Are you sure? I’m shocked Miya.” 

“And would you wish for Omi-kun?” He asks, scooching in closer to listen. His eyes narrow, not in vain but more pensive. 

Seemingly considering Atsumu’s question, he finally says — “Victory, if that’s not so selfish of me.” 

Atsumu chuckles, relaxing even further. “Nothing about you is selfish.” 

“I’ve been told otherwise.” 

The chandelier rocks, glammering side to side and an earthquake emerges in the sky; molten ash spreading. Another twinkle, brilliant hues of sapphire and indigo smeared against the canvas. Lapis ornate to the dilation of Sakusa’s pupils as he gazes upward. “Yer the least selfish person I know, we all have our ambitions” 

“Far fetched dreams. I once wanted to be an astronaut.” Sakusa laughs shortly, folding his hands, and he smells earthy, must of diesel. “But it didn’t work out so well.” 

“Believe it or not, I wanted to be a car.” And when Sakusa eyes him judgmentally,. Hhe chucklesadds, “Yyeah, that dream was short lived.” 

“You came close though, to your dream.” 

Atsumu inspects the sky once more, the breeze coming in strong, Sakusa’s black button up, blending in the sea of air, the collar flipping under his jaw. “I’m glad to hear that Omi-kun.” 

“Likewise.” 

Atsumu dangles his feet, catching into the dirt, the grass teasing at his ankles. “Have you ever believed in me?” 

“Believed in you?” And Atsumu presses his lips together, as Sakusa avoids his intense gaze. Keening into his imaginary touch as he unconsciously leers closer. “Despite contrary belief Miya, I don’t despise you.” 

“Good to know.” Atsumu says seriously, as Sakusa scrunches his nose in disgust. 

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, no matter how hard I try.” And he seems sincere, soft spoken — and gentle even if it's hard to piece the words together. _Oh._ That’s actually extremely good to know. And that’s how it ends. The end of the first scene. Slow progress is a beacon of hope, for the past — maybe future. Or whatever that holds for them when it arrives. 

*

It’s the morning. He’s laying on the track, hot cement, pavement of the track pressed to his shoulders, the small of his back. It’s almost refreshing in retrospect, that Atsumu lets the wash of heat, the pacing burn trekking along his chest, the sky passes through — a typhoon becomes a house of cards, chivalry in the sun. Atsumu could swallow it whole, Osaka, the mouth of hunger expanding to Los Angeles. There was once a time that happiness was a daily routine in his life, waking up to Osamu’s voice, an alarm clock to begin his day — there is as Suna, only 17 and more wiser and deadpan than most teenagers their age. 

He remembers, the last day before Suna would depart for Hyogo they all went to Santa Monica, a nice drive along the seaside with Suna driving, Osamu and Atsumu bickering who would take the passenger seat (in the end, they both sat in the back seat). Salt hitting their tongues, smoothing back the nape of the necks. Suna and Osamu left a few hours to walk along the beachfront while Atsumu remained on the pier, ordering Carnita Tacos, and sitting on the benches, feet dug to the rich sand as he wiggled his toes. 

He knows there’s supposed to be an end — a grand finale to the memory. But in all honesty, there was no more light to shed on the matter. He had fallen asleep on the way back, abiding salt in his mouth, sand stuck in his sneakers and there were the hushed voices — broken and in harmony in the front seats. 

He does miss Los Angeles, but somehow in the matter of weeks he’s been able to fill the emptiness that had arrived upon stepping in Osaka. Then there’s Sakusa Kiyoomi, and as he rests his hands behind his head, gazing at the sky; an airplane skyward, forever taking flight — almost like second chances. And there’s the similarity, of strong rust, and engine oil that dispenses in the air as he dark figure hovers above him. And the parallels are preternatural, except he’s not withering in pain, or Sakusa appears to be yelling his name with worry. 

It appears that he too, realizes this and slowly a hand stretches out. _Take it. Take it._ “What’re you doing here Miya?” 

“Thinking.” 

“Well get up, Meian-san needs us.” 

“Gotchu’.” He begins to sit up, elbow against the pavement of the track. 

“Are you ready?” Sakusa asks, and his hand is there, ungloved and warm, so gently warm that maybe a fire might sear, under the reputation of the sun. 

Atsumu considers wisely. “Omi-kun, you should know me better than to ask questions like that.” 

Their hands meet, as he hauls him up. Sakusa’s hint of a smile — it pauses sharp, cutting at the seams. It’s something new, unyielding. And Atsumu shivers, he’s always enjoyed the fear of what comes next. 

*

He’s driving down, lanterns and neon striped streets chanting his name, he hears words; the distant crackle of his ear piece. Atsumu feels like lightning, thunder traveling through his bones. He makes a turn, dark paths of the night scene in Osaka; it’s quiet. There’s the reverberate of cars, gearing their engines behind him, two lanes painted with white. 

Atsumu soaks in the exhilaration, flaring back past his cheek as there’s whiplash against him; and he holds himself back. Sakusa’s voice melts in ear, waxing against the turbulence, but he follows his orders — they come and go as he hits the gas pedal to boost forward. Right now, he’ was in fourth place, passing an Acura. Crafted signs point down the street, shell-white and bare as it’s nighttime and the ward is a less popular area in the busy streets away from pedestrians. 

He knows that Bokuto and Hinata shouldn’t be too far behind, and he thinks about how welcoming they both were, and the absolute most they did to make Atsumu feel part of the team. For that, he’ll always be grateful. He’s always been tedious, and careful about opening up to new people, however it was easy to crack open his chests of treasures and secrets to the Black Jackals: an eccentric, unique group of people who were like home to him. 

A new experience he never faced back in Los Angeles. 

The adrenaline kicks in, and he shifts his wheels, speeding up. In the far distance he sees it, the finish line, a field of people, screaming — maybe his name. The cinematic thump of his heartbeat feels wild, Atsumu feels like it’s annihilation crushing his throat as his fingers feel like cobwebs sticking to the steering wheel. His Chevrolet purrs, streak of egotistical red against the backlit alley he zooms past. 

Atsumu is so close. He can taste the fresh win, and he steps on the gas once more, driving past the jet black Scion. He feels it in his throat, the ghost of Sakusa’s voice, leading him to victory. And then he _drifts._ He feels like he’s floating, yellow lines he crosses — second — first place and the cheers go _wild._ He feels delirious, a happy kind that he’s almost unrecognizable under the lights of the end at the end of the road. The buzzing crowd of spectators. 

He doesn’t look to the crowd, as he peels himself away from the car seat, leaning his elbow on the curve of his door. He lifts up a fist, and in the crowd, a beacon of trust, a ghost with a tight-lipped smile throws his head piece to the floor. Sakusa is there, in the midst of chaos and Atsumu smiles winking his way. He feels the genuinity, victory sealing away and the aftermath of adrenaline rushes down to his toes. 

He wants to move, run to him. But he doesn’t. And so they meet eyes, and it’s a chandelier, of the stars in the sky — maybe a whole galaxy speaks to him when Atsumu looks at Sakusa. And it gives him hope, and it speaks volume. That he had won, with Sakusa by his side, the best prize he could receive. 

*

“Osamu might be returning to LA soon,” Atsumu announces, they’re sitting on the track, on top of the hood of his car, looking outward to the sky. It’s the early morning, the sunrise seeping from behind the buildings, a hazy mist in the horizon. 

“Do you plan on following him?” Sakusa asks, not moving one bit, shifting his position beside Atsumu. 

He laughs, “Hell no. Anyway it’s not like he’s gonna be there forever, he has Onigiri Miya to run.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Sakusa says, winking at the rising sun. It’s absolutely glorious, almost like a topaz under the spotlight, blinding lights and the pupil’s falsifies under the teetering brink of Sakusa’s eyes. Perhaps a shade of emerald, the tube of oil, paint against the hefty tint of yellow, the sun patiently awaiting. “Any future plans? Retiring?” 

“God, Omi-kun do you really want me to quit that bad?” he jokes, rolling over to Sakusa’s side, arm against the window. 

“Your words not mine.” 

“Jerk,” he scuffs, feet gathering at the bottom of the hood, folded in the ebony horizon that churns brighter colors. There’s the sunrise, and it’s absolutely splendid to witness. “And to answer yer question, retirement is the last thing on my mind.” 

He watches, memorized as the sun waves a final goodbye, a shy slant to Sakusa’s cheek, and he reaches forward, holding him close, and when Sakusa doesn’t budge — they stay there for a while. Atsumu’s finger nuzzled to his cheek, and Sakusa hummed in the wind. He didn’t plan on going anywhere, anytime soon. Maybe their hands meet, or sparks fly as they face the early morning, a new day, a new beginning. 

And god, it feels achingly similar to Los Angeles, sitting with Osamu, watching the sun paint its name over the Hollywood sign. Except, in replacement there’s Sakusa, and his smile — his smile is also new, and timidly placed. But he could get used to it, all it needed was a little time. And it was definitely worth the wait. 

*

It’s funny, how quickly life can change. For the better, it took Atsumu some adjustment, and learning what’s right and wrong — the hard way. He learns, he learns everyday and is grateful when Meian continues to teach him, it’s like a small opening in a healing wound that might’ve been a knife buried in his chest; and the promise of being introduced to his children is brought up at a late team meeting one night. 

Meanwhile, Atsumu enjoys the company of the members, Hinata who’s passionate, and a small spark in the system, ready to ignite. And Bokuto, who challenges him to too many games of Mario Kart. Inunaki continues to fathom, in silence clearly knowing more than he lets on with Thomas desperately by his side. 

But Sakusa, he sees the syringe, the gloves, the wound is visible and ready to be sewn up. Maybe it’ll take time, but he doesn’t mind in all honesty the grueling wait of discoveries inside Pandora’s box is better left unopened. 

Atsumu has never felt more alive — actually that’s a lie. It’s like fate and annihilating adrenaline coursing through his veins. He can hear the cheers, some boos, the screams and it lights him on fire. This was what street racing was supposed to be; high stakes, danger and freedom. _Freedom_ , it tasted so wild and fitting in his mouth. 

It’s the same, he desires the track, an ode to quiet entities with striped lines that cross your way. “Hey Omi-kun.” He says through the microphone, the same one attached to his ear and he knows Sakusa heard him, it’s like a riveting connection of two tales swarming in fury and rocketing devastation that brings them close. He can imagine Sakusa’s standing at the observation balcony staring from the track. Goosebumps kiss his skin like poison envy. 

“What.” 

“If I win, can I get the kiss I deserve?” And he imagines the painted lines of coldness, a tight-lipped smile that cracks under the dark. Maybe, in the months to come, and the further they grow close, he will witness the mount of unfamiliarity crumble. And he doesn’t need to look in his rearview mirror to know that Sakusa Kiyoomi was watching, he is always watching. 

When he’s always watching, good fortune arrives. Whether it lies from the happy accidents, or gleeful twist and turn of fate, tossing him around -- from home to home. He’s careful, always careful in the way that he stares, like glass curtains closed over his eyes. And so slowly, over time may Atsumu be granted permission to unlift the veil over his vision, and allow himself to be opened up to the world. The undiscovered, what’s already been unearthed, ready to open like a present, or Pandora’s box together. At the end of the road, lies no longer false hope; there’s Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

There’s Sakusa, the realest thing he can grasp onto for a while now, when his world falls apart, bit by bit. A return to reality, he can hold onto him when his dreams carry him too far, or when the daydreams lift him into the air, and Sakusa plants a nail into the ground, gently setting him down. Atsumu felt at last, comforted, not by the endowing arm's of Osaka's night, or the lingering caress of Los Angeles sea of guilt, and shadowed past. Seeing Sakusa, in the beauty of the night, where misery may follow, or whatever haunted past burdens his shoulder, it doesn't matter. God, he’s so grateful that he turned Atsumu’s whole life upside down. 

“You sure can try.” Atsumu laughs, imagining Sakusa’s beautifully sculpted face carved by Michelangelo himself. Meanwhile, he hears it truly for the first time, Sakusa’s real laugh. He lets the laugh sink in, the wind calls his name, _are you ready?_ It asks him, in future declarations and entitled promises to be kept. Atsumu is ready, more ready than he’s ever been. Finally, the gunshot echoes.

It’s a good thing Atsumu has always liked a good challenge. 

**Author's Note:**

> welcome, you've made it to the end. I thank you for coming along and reading this 20k journey that've been embarking on frot he past less then two-ish weeks. in reality, i've been stuck with this fic for over five months, but rlly this fic idea has been stuck in my head for months previous. It was completely self-indulgent, to write such an au like this. I hope you enjoyed it, i truly did, as the nostalgia of writing for the haikyuu fandom washed over me, I realized that this would probably be the last fic I'll write for the fandom for while. This of sorts my parting gift to ya'll, to sakuatsu and to myself -- my biggest demon. Granted going into this fic, it can become obvious that I know shit about cars, or California, but i hope there aren't too many inaccuracies about street racing that it was enjoyable enough to read! Thank you to everyone who has taken their time to read my fics, or any of my writing, I really appreciate it. And to my [beta](%E2%80%9C)  
> Ur a real one <3
> 
> I made a [carrd](https://letyourbodyburn.carrd.co/), if you would read it, that would be lovely <33 
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are appreciated, perhaps knock my comment section down with what you liked etc, or crash through my door of dm's, i'm currently moving over to kpop fortunately so i'll be there with new acc! however you can find me here:


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